Ghosts That We Knew
by colourmywords
Summary: She should be in her junior year of college like her roommates Quinn and Tina but instead she's serving drinks. She should be building a career but instead she's doing a line in the storage room behind an alleyway. Santana refuses to turn her life back around but her friends have a plan and it involves calling up the one person who knows every method to cracking her shield.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Rush**

The dilapidated bulb swings slowly back and forth, like a grandfather clock on its last oscillations, and the flickering light bounces off the dark tattered walls. You're used to it now, the dimly lit room, the cardboard stench of old wood and alcohol. It's the only place you can do this between hours without getting caught.

You pull out the small baggie from the back pocket of your jeans, feeling the stare burn heavily into the side of your face. There's only one other girl with you, wide-eyed and craving. The rest are still working their shifts and she insisted on getting a head start. It's been a while since your last dose, a week or so, and you're not looking to waste any time. But you're not addicted to the stuff, or so you claim. It's more of a one night thing when you feel up to it, depending on the mood. Tonight just so happens to be one of those nights.

"Fuck," she says in anticipation, "How much was it?"

"95," you spit, opening the bag and picking your surface.

The white powder falls out like dust onto the small table tucked away in the back and you try to pour a line. With the alcohol coursing through your system, though, you're finding it hard to concentrate and end up with several small piles, like tiny mountains of snow.

"How did you score that much blow for less than a hundred?" she asks again.

You sigh in frustration. She's really not helping you focus and it's pissing you off. It was busy at the bar tonight and you just finished your three hour shift. You really need something to loosen up.

"No big deal," you say without looking up, refining the edges of the line you poured, "I knew the guy."

The words slide past your lips bitterly, like something rotten, because you remember what you did. You remember the callous hands at your neck and the disgust churning in your stomach when you felt him against you. The thoughts attack and the only way you know how to fight back is by bending down and snorting the first half of the line. You hate that part, getting it up your nose, because it stings like a bitch. You always regret doing it right after, when the powder burns holes and you can't breathe for the first few seconds.

As you tilt your head back, stumbling away from the counter, your head starts to throb. It's been doing that the entire night, violently enough to throw you off reality several times. It feels a little like being placed under a microscope where the intensity of everything is magnified. The coke only heightens the pain shooting up your nasal and into your head. With that plus the measures you took to make the good deal, you reconsider whether it was worth it.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath as you stand up to make room for the other girl. You turn away to face the darkness and reach up, applying pressure to your temples.

The other girl stumbles back moments later giggling, tilting her head up to let the stuff kick in. Before you can even realign your mind onto the tracks of reality, you're pushed and pinned against the wall. Within seconds, her lips are on yours and her tongue darts into your mouth. The spinning in your head makes it harder to pull yourself together and throw her off. You knew this was bound to happen soon, you and her, because she's been giving you that look for weeks now.

You attempt to stop her but the weight of her body falls into yours and you can't muster enough strength anymore. For the time being, you stop fighting and let her press you up against the storage room wall. You know it should feel rough and unpalatable but it doesn't. Your lips just feel numb because despite the pressure she's forcing onto them, this is what you're used to. It should feel wrong but it honestly doesn't impact you much at all and that's not anything new. You can't remember the last time kissing was something you enjoyed.

Time skips and it feels like blocks of memory have been sliced out from your mind, leaving you with scattered bits and pieces of the past few minutes. She's biting at your neck when you tune back into the moment and open your eyes. Her hand slides into your jeans and you spend the next few minutes under her control. You're slowly approaching that line between in and out of this world so most of the moment doesn't really process in your head and it feels completely insignificant when it's over.

You stumble out into the alley, wiping your nose with the back of your hand and sniffing. It still burns a little but the initial pain is gone. You feel unclean, a layer of dirt settling on on you that you want nothing more than to wash off with hard scrubbing. It's the same feeling every single time you're with someone. You want it to disappear and luckily, all you have to do is wait until the stuff kicks in.

You walk the remaining distance back into the building of the bar, tripping over your own steps every once in a while. The back entrance swings open with your hand and you aim to be in and out as fast as possible. You just have to grab your bag and punch out from your shift.

The faint music sounds when you open the second door that takes you down a hallway. You remind yourself where to go because at the end, taking a right will lead to the lockers but a left with put you right back into the bar scene.

You keep walking, eyes glued to the ground so that you don't trip where someone can see how clearly out of balance you are. For a split second, the music climbs a level louder and you realize that the door that separates the main area from the back is being opened.

Before you reach the end of the hallway, you walk straight into a larger body with your face landing on his chest. You're afraid it's Jerry, your boss, so you try to get away without looking up. Before you can shuffle past him, his arms come up to yours and hold you tightly. You're trapped now but you know who it is.

"Whoa, whoa, Santana," he says, slightly worried.

"What do you want, Puck?" you snap back, finally looking up to meet his eyes.

You notice how he searches you, his eyes narrowing deep into yours like you're his case to solve. He's been this way since he found you that night last week with red eyes and dark patches of skin underneath. He doesn't know about your little extracurricular activity but he's on to you. If you aren't careful, he's going to find out soon or later.

His eyes lower to meet yours even though you've hidden them. He tries to get to you, to work past that shield you keep building. You've secreted behind walls all your life that it comes easy now, like memorizing the key controls in a video game or a default setting in your body. Some would call you an expert, if they were into labels.

When Puck realizes he's failing, he sighs in defeat. You hate that, the way people always seem to hang their heads in disappointment of you.

He gives up and regains composure, "I came to find you and tell you that Jerry needs you to serve."

"What?" you frown incredibly.

"Katelyn called in sick," he explains, letting go of you, "I'd do it but I've got plans."

"You're joking," you say irately, "I did my hours."

"You'll get her tips," he reminds you, "And its swamped tonight so might as well make the most of it."

He has a point and you really do need all the extra money you can get. Working at the bar pays enough for your third of the rent but despite sharing an apartment with Quinn and Tina, money is always tight and you can't quite afford to turn down the opportunity to make more of it yet.

"Fine," you huff, "But I'm off at midnight."

"Sure, whatever," he agrees.

You turn around in frustration to make your way back to the bar. The space in your chest feels tight and crammed, shrinking every minute as the effects kick in. You don't get too far until you feel his hand catch yours again.

"Santana," he says quietly, "You can talk to me, you know?"

You chuckle disdainfully, "Nothing to talk about."

"What about Tina, and Quinn?" he asks, forcing you to turn around and face him again, "You talk to them?"

"There's _nothing_ to talk about, Puck," you insist.

"Alright, Santana," he says sternly, "I'm just trying to help."

You laugh coldly, "I don't remember asking for help."

"You didn't have to," he says strongly, eyes lowering to meet yours even though you've hidden them, "Now I don't know what the hell's going on with you anymore, Lopez, but we're all worried."

You snatch your hand back forcefully, eyes narrowing at him as you approach, "I don't need your fucking sympathy, Puck. Leave me the hell alone if you can't accept that."

You don't even wait for him to respond before walking away. Your head drops down and fingers reach up to pinch the bridge of your nose as the music grows. It took all the strength in you to stay focused during that conversation so now that he's gone, you slowly feel yourself tip toeing back into that rush. It's just a couple more hours, you tell yourself, but then the walls start melting and your head explodes into the darkness.

The sound of the mixer as you shake it back and forth is nauseating, probably more so now that the coke has kicked in and you're irreversibly lodged in between reality and, well, whatever that other place is called. Jerry doesn't know you're high and if he did, you'd lose your job. The staff is prohibited to drugs and alcohol during hours and you haven't once broken that rule. Your normal time slot was over and done with so there was no reason you couldn't go for it. Somehow that's put you on a tight rope with a pool of lava beneath you where one mistake, one slip up, and you're gone.

"Excuse me, sweetheart," a man calls out from the counter.

You breathe out, dreadfully, and peer up from the glass you were cleaning. The man smirks and you lift your brow, signaling him to continue with his order. You're trying your best not to talk or say much besides naming the price because you don't think anything will come out too coherently right now.

"Could I get a scotch on the rocks," he requests, his grin growing wider.

Without a word, you nod and bend down to the shelf of glasses that you use particularly for that order. You spin around, regretting it moments later from the head rush, and scoop a few ice cubes into the glass. On your way back to the counter, you reach over and retrieve the bottle of Black Label. As you pour it, you notice how shaky your hands are. Panic sets and you lower your hands so that you're fixing his drink where nobody can really see. It takes so much more concentration than you're capable of mustering together right now but you get it done eventually.

"Busy tonight, huh?" he asks as you set it down in front of him.

You really don't think you can handle this, talking to someone, because from the corner of your eye you can already see a few other customers waiting that Greg, the other bartender on shift, hasn't served yet. Plus, you can feel your heart picking up its pace and a certain dizziness shaking the boundaries of your vision. Talking isn't really what you're interested in, or even competent of, doing right now.

"Mhmm," you manage to agree after wiping your hands on your jeans.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh from the feeling of the drink sliding down his throat. His eyes shift and scan over your body the same way every other man in this bar does. Something drops in your stomach, like a pool of disgust, and you desperately try to ignore it. You'd think that after six months working here that you'd be used to it by now, the inappropriate comments and stares from customers, but you've just become extremely good at pushing things away. Feelings, that is. That's how you survive in this career, in this world.

"Well thanks for the drink, babe," he says, winking as he pulls out a ten from his wallet and slaps it on the counter, "Keep the change."

You quickly reach for the money and turn around, leaving the cost of the drink in the cash register and exchanging the bill into ones for your tip. The extra cash is stuffed into your back pocket—no, your other back pocket—and you make your way to the other customers, hoping to get a few more of those.

The rest of the night moves quicker than you thought, especially with another wave of people flowing in at around eleven. The bar closes at two and there's usually still a relatively large crowd until midnight. You continuing serving for the remaining half hour of your shift, glad that the orders aren't too varied because it'd be annoying to have to pull out ten different bottles to mix ten different drinks. Most of them just ask for scotch or whiskey—the men that is—and the woman take shots or order themselves classier cocktails like martinis and mojitos.

The throbbing in your head is just as bad as it was when you started the shift but you haven't shown extreme symptoms from the blow. You didn't take as much tonight as you have been known to before which you guess is fortunate considering you had to work again. The only thing that bothers you is the bomb that keeps ticking off in your chest and the roller coaster ride your head hopped on.

You're fishing through your cubby in the employees lounge to pull out your coat and purse when the same annoying voice from before enters your thoughts.

"You're still here?" she says quietly, the girl who did the line with you hours back.

Your eyes roll with a sigh as you slide your arms through the sleeves and swing the bag over your shoulder. Everything has weight attached to it, every movement and gesture. You're a sloth except only in your actions because all else still moves accordingly, you're a slow motion movie in a sped up world.

The sound of the locker shutting bursts your eardrums—at least that's what it feels like—and you prepare to turn around and face her again.

"I covered a shift," you explain, avoiding her as your finger scratches your eyelid. You shudder because you can hear your nails scrape against your skin. Suddenly, you have this supernatural ability to hear every little detail of everything and it drives you insane.

There's nothing else you want to say to her and since she keeps quiet, you start walking towards the door that she just so conveniently happens to be standing beside to leave. When you brush past, she grabs your arm and stops you. People seem to have picked the same night to do that, stop you from leaving.

"Santana," she tries but you don't let her.

"Fuck off," you curse; wiggling your arm free, "You got what you wanted, didn't you?"

She doesn't bother fighting back because you know she's always been scared of you. Almost all the girls here are and you like it that way. People don't mess with you when you make it clear that you don't play nice when you're pissed. They don't even need evidence to believe it.

Once you step outside, the fresh air that greets you settles several of the reactions still zipping around inside your stomach. You feel heavy, dragged down by some invisible weight, and the few blocks that you have to walk to your apartment are steps that you're already dreading.

It's probably not the smartest idea, considering how easy it is to get mugged, but you pull out your phone as you're walking to check for any alerts. There's a text and two miss calls in whom you can already guess were made by. When you open the call log, you're only confirmed by Tina and Quinn's names appearing on screen. You hope they aren't waiting up for you at home, although you know it's most likely they are. Ever since you dropped college last year, turned twenty-one and got the job at the bar, all they've ever been is worried.

They can't see you like this, not after you've taken a hit tonight. Neither of them knows but they both suspects something, the same way Puck does. You only started doing coke a few months ago because one of the girls you work with had some and you figured there was no harm in trying it once. Except, that 'once' turned into once every week and then some.

Before crossing the street to your apartment complex, you stop by the drug store for a pack of cigarettes. The fluorescent lights beaming from the ceiling are a little too nauseating for your current state so you shuffles your bangs over your eyes to minimize the effect. At the counter, you point behind the cashier for a pack and pay the outrageous nine bucks with help from the tips you got tonight.

After stuffing them into your bag, you leave the store and cross the road without having the pleasure of flipping off a cab that tries to run you over. It comes as a surprise considering the amount of times this week you _have_ had to yell.

The door buzzes open and you make your way up the stairs groggily, eyelids weighing down heavily enough to feel as though you'll fall asleep in the middle of walking. You grip the rail and use it to pull you up so you don't have to use all you're energy, whatever of it there is left. You're in the last stage right now. Your heart rate has dropped significantly since you last paid attention to it, the beats so widely spaced apart that you're almost convinced they aren't there at all. It's as though you're shutting down, like a power cut in a vibrant city, and you're just waiting for the last building, the last muscle, to lose light.

You fumble with your keys, trying to identify which one is going to let you into your apartment. It takes you a while because your fingers feel thicker and less attached to your nerves, almost like you've forgotten how to move them. There are four other keys that distract you from finally tugging on the right one and shoving it into the lock.

Before twisting and opening the door, you take a deep breath and try to establish some normality inside you. The last thing you need right now is another intervention with the girls begging you to say something or talk to them about what's been going on. All you've been the past few months is absent, as if the only reason you still see Quinn and Tina is because you live with them, not because they're your friends and because you make time to hang out with them. You three haven't had a real discussion in ages.

It makes you a little sad, and nostalgic, but you brush off the feeling the moment you push the door open and step into the apartment.

"Jesus Christ!" Tina says immediately before you can even look up. You keep your head down, eyes shielded from meeting hers.

"Tina—" Quinn tries in attempt to calm her down.

"No, she was supposed to be back by 10," Tina reminds Quinn before addressing me again, "Where have you been?"

"Calm down," you tell her, grimacing at how loud her voice is when it reaches your ears, "I took an extra shift."

"Santana," Quinn says composedly, "We need to…talk."

You still haven't shown your face yet and you continue to avoid eye contact until you shut the door and take a left into the kitchen. You set down your bag on the counter and shut your eyes tightly before finally lifting your head up. At first, you see Tina standing with her arms on her hips and a disappointed look on her face. Then you see Quinn on the other side of the coffee table, eyes squinting in, strangely, both judgment _and_ worry. You think you're done looking, that you've had enough of them, but then you see their eyes shift to the same spot between them and a third person emerges from the sofa chair that faces away from you.

You freeze when the stranger stands up and turns around because hell, she's no stranger. You think the thump inside you was the sound of your heart dropping into your stomach. There's doubt, so much of it, but there's also complete certainty, the two contradictions speeding towards each other and exploding in the middle of your mind. Pieces of the world, like that wall over there and the door behind you, feel as though they're peeling off, leaving you isolated in the room with the three of them.

Nobody says anything; you all merely stand in the given silence because none of you know what could possibly be said in a situation like this. The hand that you held up to press at your temple gradually drops down and hangs at your side helplessly.

She's grown her hair out longer, the waves of blonde taking over your vision momentarily. Maybe it's the drugs but it feels like you're floating in them suddenly, or drowning. She's taller, or again, maybe that's the drugs distorting your vision. No, not her though. You've always remembered her clearly, even more so right now than ever because she's the only thing that sticks out in your mind. You're surprised with how much you manage to recall—like the way she still stands with her weight shifted to one leg—and the thoughts temporarily clog your mind. You lose feeling in several areas like the tips of your fingers and your ears but you can't tell whether that's the aftereffect of the blow or her.

You're not close enough to see whether her eyes are still as blue but she's looking at you. She blinks widely, gaze falling from your face to the rest of your body. People have scanned you the way she scans you right now but you don't feel the same kind of violation from it. It isn't that twist in your gut because you're disgusted by them more or less the twist in your gut because you're disgusted by yourself. You'd get angry and irrationally defensive but you can't because you know that she doesn't mean to make you feel that way, you just do.

You can't think straight, like your thoughts are a train that keeps derailing and crashing. Five seconds ago you didn't know how much space there was between you and her—a mile or a thousand miles—and you weren't even thinking about it but suddenly she's only a few feet away and you're scared. There's nothing on your mind that doesn't have to do with her. You think she's doing that—kicking away those other thoughts—because that's how it used to be. She was always so good at being the only thing on your mind.

She looks worried, scared even, with the way she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. She takes a step forward and your heart flops, the reaction causing your hand to clench your keys in a fist. She runs an anxious hand through her golden hair, swallowing nervously before meeting your eyes again. You're breathing heavily when her lips part, mouth opening to say something.

"Hi," she breathes out and the memory of her voice clicks, like two attracting magnets, you and her again for the first time in two and a half years.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Hi, I'm back already! :) This is Chapter One of the new story I'm working on and a few notes on it: **

**- The second person POV is going to remain the dominant perspective but I will switch to third quite frequently as well, so dual perspectives **  
**- This story does reference drug abuse and therefore if you aren't comfortable with that, I should warn you now not to read**  
**- It _will _be angsty but hopefully in a more comforting way :)  
- It seems as though my head canon is that Brittany and Santana split after graduation since I've done this for two stories now. I'm sorry haha.  
****- The title of this fic is the name of a song by Mumford & Sons, "Ghosts That We Knew". I do not claim any rights to it.**

**Anyways, let me know what you think! :) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Tethers and Lassos**

You blink widely, the same question repeating over and over in your head. The situation isn't the type to hand itself over to you easily, you have to struggle first. You're in her presence again for the first time in a while and that isn't going to settle in so smoothly just yet. The hardest part is that you know she can decipher exactly how you feel. You know she can tell that you're torn between anger and fear right now. She doesn't so much bat an eyelash in another direction, only at you, and your chest compresses at the sight of her peering from a lowered angle.

Quinn clears her throat and steps forward but because most of your focus is channeled somewhere specific, you barely notice the actions carried out by the two other girls in the room. Quinn moves past her to make her way to you. The only reason you know that is because you're still partially aware of the rest of the world, handing over small amounts of attention to Quinn and Tina and the sounds of the city beyond that window. But you're still stuck speechless, staring into her eyes, brown to blue, so familiarly like picking up an old book from your childhood.

"Santana," Quinn attempts, "Can you come and sit down?"

Finally you break away from it, the locked gaze, and face Quinn who is standing considerably close. Her hands are in front of her, ready and alert as if she's prepared for you to do something like fight her. Or maybe she thinks you'll fall, collapse right here on the floor, and she's seeing to it that she catches you. She might not be too crazy to consider it; your legs do feel weak and wobbly.

"I know this is…" Tina says from further away, "…well, this is confusing but—"

"Confusing?" you laugh suddenly, interrupting Tina with a furrowed brow.

The room falls silent, the cold tone of your voice ripping through the air like blades. Tina swallows nervously because you're staring at her. No, glaring is more what they would call it. You're glaring at her, angry, confused, and lost. Tina eventually looks away and you take pride in having beaten her, overthrown her, but then your eyes shift back to _hers_ and that's gone, stripped of you completely like taking power was as easy as taking off an item of clothing.

"What are you doing here?" you ask in a quieter tone. There's a kick to your stomach when you hear it replay in your head; how much smaller your voice naturally becomes around her.

She takes a deep breath and steps forward, "I came to see you."

"Why?" you snap back immediately.

"Santana…" Quinn tries, reaching a hand out to calm you down.

"No," you reject her approach, stepping away and shaking your head, "I want to know why she's here."

She stays quiet, almost to the point where you suspect she was told not to reveal too much. You don't know how long she's been in your apartment. When you left for work at eight, Quinn and Tina were in the middle of eating dinner. The transition from not thinking about her to having her show up in your house was premature, forced upon you without warning. You're overwhelmed more so than anything else right now.

"We asked her to," Tina adds and then walks into the kitchen, placing a hand on the counter that separates the two of you.

"Why?" you ask again, hands crossing over your chest.

"Because we're worried about you," Quinn steps in.

"That doesn't answer my question," you point out, eyes narrowing back to her who stands isolated from the three of you, "Why is she here?"

Quinn and Tina share a look between themselves and then to the girl behind them, your girl. No, the girl that used to be yours. There's something burning in your stomach like a fire; you feel it bubbling up inside you the way red mercury climbs the temperatures in a thermometer. Maybe it's the drugs heightening your emotions. You still have some of it coursing through your system. While you can't quite pinpoint the source of it, you know nonetheless that it is anger. You don't like the way they all seem to share some sort of unspoken agreement and leave you out of it completely.

"Fuck it," you swear under your breath and break your stance. You grab your bag and keys and turn around, walking towards the door. Despite it being midnight, you just need to get out of the apartment. It feels crowded and tense, like a throat that keeps swelling, about to close up, and you're gasping for air.

"Santana," you hear Quinn call out but the door slams behind you. It bounces open again because of that stupid screw up in the alignment with the frame so you have to reach back and really pull it hard until it shuts. You're completely separated now and you thought you'd be able to breathe easier out here but you don't feel so much the slightest difference at all.

* * *

Quinn shuts her eyes when the door closes behind Santana, forcing herself to maintain her composure. She always tries to stay calm around Santana because the girl can so easily turn into a boiling pot of lava that if they were to both spiral out of control, it would be disaster. Also, Santana is her best friend and she hates having to yell at her. She'll do it whenever necessary, and she has, because Santana is no saint nor does she reciprocate the same kind of consideration that Quinn gives her. But nobody enjoys screaming at the people they love.

"I told you," Tina says quietly, "We probably should have thought this through a little more."

"No," Quinn disagrees, turning around to face the other two girls in the room, "She'll be fine. She's just…shocked."

"Of course, she is," Tina adds, pointing out the obvious, "She hasn't seen Brittany since Lima."

Quinn looks over to Brittany who is leaning against the back of the sofa chair. Her lips are pressed together in a tight line, pushing away the opportunity to say something. Tina and Quinn know this is hard for her too. The last time they were all together like this was at the graduation party and the two were about to make a decision that changed everything.

"I'm sorry about this Brittany," Quinn apologizes on Santana's behalf, "I didn't think she'd storm out."

"It's okay," Brittany finally says, pushing herself off the support, "She has every reason to be angry at me."

"No, she doesn't," Tina says as they all begin to gather around the island counter, "You two broke up on a mutual agreement."

"I broke her heart," Brittany admits, a hint of sadness in her tone.

"And she broke yours," Quinn adds, "Don't be so hard on yourself, Britt."

Brittany tries to smile but it comes off weakly. The other two notice it and second guess whether it was right have dragged her back into the complicated web of conflict that is Santana. They may not have thought so much on how this was going to impact Brittany. After all, she let go of love her life that day too.

"She's just going to do what she has to do until it makes more sense to her," Quinn explains, "I don't know what that is exactly, but she'll be back."

"In the meantime, how are you, Britt?" Tina asks, attempting to change topics, "We've all missed you."

"I've missed you guys too," she says truthfully, "I'm alright, still settling in. It's crazy big in this city."

"You'll get used to it," Quinn says with a smile, "It took us, what, a few weeks?"

"I'd say so," Tina agrees, "It wasn't too bad."

Brittany lets out a quiet giggle, "That's good to know."

"We didn't realize you were already on your way to New York before we called last month," Tina admits.

She chews on her lip, contemplating her response, "Your call was just a reason to get here sooner. I couldn't stay in Lima anymore."

"We know," Quinn says, looking over to Tina and then back to Brittany, "You don't belong there, too much...history."

"New York has been great," Tina chimes in before catching her words and retracting a little bit, "Well, for us at least." A silent moment lingers in between the three of them, floating like an unwanted stranger in a group of friends.

"What happened to her?" Brittany asks quietly. Even with the gentle tone, Quinn and Tina can both hear the worry that underpins the nature of her question.

Quinn shakes her head, "She was doing fine until last year…"

"What happened last year?" Brittany probes.

"She dropped out of Columbia," Tina fills in, "Said something about it not being 'for her' anymore."

"We figured she'd just transfer somewhere else," Quinn continues, "She got a job as a waitress and was working for a while. But then she turned twenty-one and started working at a bar a few blocks down from here."

Brittany's brow knots, thinking hardly as the information comes to her. Quinn takes a moment to pause and turn to her before finishing, "Ever since then we haven't really been able to figure out what's going on with her."

"She's shut us out completely," Tina adds, shifting to sit on the stool. Quinn and Brittany do the same eventually so that they're all seated around the island counter.

"She got scared," Brittany says, lacing her fingers together, "Santana let's people mess with her even though she tries so hard not to."

"What do you mean?" Tina asks.

"Someone or something must have happened last year that really hit her," Brittany explains, "And it would only be fitting that she didn't tell you guys about it because Santana never likes to talk about feelings."

"Except with you," Quinn says quietly and the two others look up at her, "That's why we called you."

"I can't make her do anything," Brittany says, sitting upright, "Things are different now."

"Some things change, Britt," Quinn explains, "But some things don't."

Brittany breathes in deeply, accepting Quinn's words as they come. She knows what she means, that she and Santana are always going to share something that neither will find with anybody else. It makes her stomach flutter lightly, reminding her that she's always felt so much at such a high intensity for Santana.

"Yeah," Tina agrees, "Santana will listen to you, she always does."

"She always did," Brittany corrects, "We don't know that anymore. You saw how she walked out."

"She's confused and probably pissed off," Quinn explains, releasing a small chuckle, "We didn't exactly give her a heads up."

"What is it that you want me to do?" Brittany asks honestly, still rather surprised about the entire situation as a whole. She received their call last month and it was the first time she had spoken to Quinn and Tina in a year or so. They stayed in touch for a short time after graduation but long distance became difficult, even for maintaining friendships. So much effort must be put in, and equal amounts from both sides. Distance ruined a lot for Brittany, more than just a couple friendships.

Quinn and Tina share a look before responding. It was their last option to call Brittany but it just so happened that she already had plans to move here. Santana had been treading down the same road for too long and they couldn't stand another step in that direction. She was degrading each day, Santana, and that was their best friend falling so low. They couldn't simply ignore the fact that she was struggling, even if Santana refused to admit anything about there being a problem. Sometimes, the ones who are in need the most are the quietest ones. In the midst of their battle to overcome fears and challenges, they lose their voice between the fighting and the tears. We can so easily miss a sign from them, a hidden cry of plea, and if we aren't clever, we may be too late to do any saving. Quinn and Tina couldn't let Santana run out of time and she hasn't yet, but she's nearing.

"We want you to talk to her," Quinn explains, "Santana has always made an exception for you."

"Yeah, but we understand," Tina adds, "If you don't want to get involved."

Brittany nods, pressing her lips together before answering, "Okay. I'll try."

"That's all we can ask for," Quinn says kindly, her smile warm enough to reassure Brittany.

* * *

Something flashes across the darkness of your eyelids and tugs you from sleep like a lasso around your body. You can feel the drop towards reality inching nearer and nearer as if every second you're taking a step towards the edge of a cliff. Your mind is more awake than your body because you start to think about your surroundings. You didn't go home last night. That's not true, you did, and then you saw her, and then you left. Right, now it comes back to you. You went to Puck's, banged on his door for a while, and waited until he opened it still half asleep. That's whose couch you're sleeping on now.

You peel your eyes open, feeling the lids carry with them the weight of the dark world. Parts of you still feel incredibly heavy, poisoned with fatigue. The light from the open window, somewhere over there, is excruciatingly bright. The backs of your eyes start to hurt as you blink quickly to adjust. You feel a little sore in almost every spot in your body, like your joints have become stiff and your muscles weak.

The amount of effort it takes for you to sit up is shocking and you realize you can't keep doing this. Of course, you say that every morning but you're back at the same bar doing the same thing every night. Some point along the way, it wasn't about telling yourself to stop this lifestyle but telling yourself to stop telling yourself to stop. It's a mouthful, yes, and it's difficult to wrap your head around but it make sense when you think hard enough; if you don't keep reminding yourself that what you're doing is wrong then you feel less of it being wrong. It works to some extent.

After sneaking a glance through the crack of Puck's bedroom door, you see that he's still asleep. That tells you it's some time before ten am. You walk on the tips of your toes across the apartment, picking up your shoes and making your way to the door. Just as you're about to twist it open and leave without a trace, you're greeted with an inevitable wave of guilt.

In the kitchen, there's a pad of paper and a pen on the counter. You scribble down a few words but decide that they make you sound sappy and lame. After crossing out several attempts, you finally write down two words that you feel are good enough and rip the sheet from the pack, walking as quietly as you can over to where you were sleeping on his couch. You place the note on the pillow and read the words over to yourself one last time.

_Thank you._

You shake your head after staring long and hard at it, confused as to why you felt the need to leave a note. It pisses you off, this gesture, because it's not something you would normally do. Something is messing with you and it's not the drugs anymore. The paper crumbles in your fist and you stuff it into your back pocket—no, crap, your other back pocket—and leave his apartment feeling stupid and irritated.

Quinn and Tina should be at NYU in their classes since fall has started. You're thankful for that because you'd rather not have to face them so soon after last night. Last night. The rest of it comes back to you, the part that you purposely tried to forget.

Brittany. God, the name sounds so delicious in your thoughts but you hate that it still makes you feel that way. You hate that the moment you saw her, when she turned around and your eyes met, your heart climbed a few tempos higher. Is she always going to do that to you? You can't know for sure unless you spend the rest of your life with her. And to think, just two years ago that was your plan.

You become aware of the street and the cars that blaze past you as you're walking, horns sounding the anthem that is New York City, when you feel your eyes start to sting. Thinking about her makes you feel nauseous, like you're back on that tight rope glancing down at a five hundred feet drop. You shudder at the projection and reach into your bag for a cigarette. You light it and breathe in the smoke, hoping that it can somehow catch every disturbing feeling inside you so that on the exhale, the blowing out of that same smoke, you can bid farewell to those feelings too. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way and one puff, seven puffs, doesn't make a difference.

When you get back to the apartment, you feel tense and nervous. The coat of dirt still saturates your skin and you can't wait to get inside to scrub off every last inch of it. As you walk in and set down your bag, you notice the body laying on the couch. Every movement freezes in mid action, even the beats of your heart stop temporarily. She doesn't move, not yet, and you slowly process that image of her asleep.

You think you might run—bolt for the door and never come back—but then you think about her waking up alone. She's attaching that tether to you, the invisible one with the patterns of every memory you've shared, right now in her sleep. In her god damn _sleep_.

Without making too much noise, you tip toe around the counter and towards your room. You're too confused to deal with her right now. You can acknowledge how your body reacts to her but you don't understand what it means yet. Your eyes are squinted, silently pleading that she doesn't wake up so you can hide yourself away until she does—buy yourself a little more time. Of course, nothing likes to go your way and the ruffling that echoes behind you stops your movements.

"Santana?" she says sleepily. You hate that her voice melts your heart into a puddle of crimson liquid in your chest. Your eyes clench shut and you mouth out a silent curse for waking her up. You can't go anywhere now, not without confronting her.

"You shouldn't have to sneak in your own house," she says in a grainy voice, one that you would have cherished two years ago. Okay, you would still cherish it now if you took the time but you don't.

Your body sinks, souls of your feet flattening against the floor with a sigh. You still don't know why she's here, why she's sleeping in your apartment. Suddenly, you wonder whether she's going to be here for longer, in the same living room, sharing the same roof. You wonder whether she lives here now.

Her throat clears, "I get that you don't want to talk to me, but I'm going to keep trying."

Eventually, you turn around. With your lips pressed into a tight line, you inhale deeply through your nose and glance up to her. She's standing, adjusting the hem of her shirt so it covers more skin. You catch it, though, that split second of paleness between her shirt and the waistline of her jeans before it disappears. The fact that you still capture the details makes you angry but towards yourself not so much her. Last night, the state you were in paralyzed your cognition enough to forget to make that conclusion; that you aren't mad at anyone as much as you're mad at yourself. The drugs simply skipped the thinking part and went straight to the doing, the yelling and the storming out.

"Why are you here?" you ask, shoulders lifting up in a shrug.

"Quinn and Tina insisted that I crash here because it was late last—"

"No, Brittany," you interrupt but fumble slightly with your words because you haven't felt her name leave your lips in a long time. It takes a moment to pull yourself back together and draw out the remainder of your sentence, "Why are you _here_? In New York."

Brittany nods, accepting the harshness of your question. One more thing you hate; how understanding she is about everything. You remember how you used to tell her about the things that you were so afraid of, like loving her, and how the only thing she would do to that is kiss you on the forehead. Your mind tries to convince you that you don't need it anymore, her acceptance and her comfort, but your body screams the opposite. It scratches underneath your skin, as if clawing towards her.

She maneuvers around the coffee table and suddenly she's much closer than before. Her fingers brush through her hair, combing the golden locks that you've never seen this beautiful. You swallow nervously because she makes you want to fall into her, let her hold you and embrace you, but she also makes you want to run away.

Brittany is only several feet apart when she finally responds to you, "I'm here for school. And for work." You're breathing heavily because she keeps stealing your air and it isn't fair. You asked the question but you're not really listening to what she saying more or less how she's saying it; the tone, the lips in motion. She looks nervous too but she hides it better than you do.

"And…for you," she adds at the end.

The words send your heart racing, the beats travelling on different paths to the rest of your body. You feel it at the bottom of your throat, pushing a lump up into your windpipe. In your ears, you can hear the pounding and maybe even the pumping of blood through your veins. With two words, she sparks your entire body back to life. These reactions are among the ones you haven't felt in a long time, the ones that have remained dormant and overshadowed by numbness.

"I've missed you, Santana," she says, stepping in closer.

You can't look at her anymore because the blue is too pure to taint with your darkness. You don't want to see them change to grey storm clouds the way they used to whenever you disappointed her, whenever you hurt her. Your head hangs, eyes dropping to stare at her feet, noticing how little space there is between you. It still hasn't entirely settled, the fact that she's standing in front of you right now and not somewhere else in the world like you thought.

"Hey…" she says as her hand reaches to your chin and lifts it up in the gentlest touch you have ever felt, "You were my best friend too."

You feel your eyes swell with tears, the sting emphasizing how much you've missed her. You don't want to say it out loud because, well, you don't think you can, but also because you don't want to believe it; to know you spend two years pretending you haven't missed her when really that was the only thing you did.

She's so close that her presence alone is throwing your mind off track. It's like you're on a speeding train that keeps slipping through tunnel after tunnel, a journey of light continuously interrupted by darkness. She's the light and your thoughts are the darkness, constantly dragging you away from the comfort she's offering so willingly.

"I, uh," you manage to mumble, stepping backwards and away from her. You keep your head down, avoiding direct eye contact, "I have things…to do."

The words slip off your tongue so bitterly that you taste the disgust. You add more distance between the two of you, a hand reaching to rub your temple and sooth the throb you suddenly feel there as your chest tightens uncomfortably.

"If you could, uh, make sure the door shuts…when you leave," you say thickly, looking up to send her one last glance. It may not have been the smartest idea because the moment you find her broken stare, you experience a strong pull towards her like she just gripped the rope with both hands and tugged as hard as she could. Almost like an act of desperation, begging you to come back to her.

It takes all the strength in your body to ignore it and turn away, ripping the sight of her face from your view and disappearing behind the bedroom door.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the feedback on the first chapter. I'm really pleased with how many story followers I've already got so again, thanks to all that are invested. The first couple chapters, this and the last one, were about introducing the story and the setting/characters so we'll be getting into the juicy stuff soon! Anyways, thanks for the support! Hope you keep reading and let me know your thoughts on it! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Bodies Will Breathe Right**

You wake up into the darkness, eyes opening smoothly without the usual shattering pain that often greets you in the mornings. It takes a moment until you realize that you fell asleep after showering, your hair still damp and your body draped across the width of the bed rather than the length. You lie temporarily, adjusting to the world at your own pace as you stare up at the ceiling. You wish it would come alive, maybe introduce you to a whole other universe because you think this one you're in right now might start falling apart soon.

Eventually you sit up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn escapes into the air. You lean over to your bedside table and reach for your phone, unlocking it to check what the time is. 6:38pm. Eight hours of sleep. Great, now you'll be up all night which is completely unrewarding considering you don't work on Thursdays.

Even though you stand, pacing a few steps back and forth in each direction, you're afraid to leave the room. The last time you were out there, she was there too and you're not sure you can bear another second looking at her. It isn't because you can't stand Brittany. It's never that reason. You just can't stand the way she looks at you because it feels like you've thrown everything away in the flick of a wrist when you do.

The twist in your stomach comes back when you remember this morning. She wasn't supposed to be here, in your apartment. She wasn't supposed to be so sweet and kind and everything that you remembered her to be. You think about how much easier it would be if she wasn't the same Brittany that you knew in high school, but she is. She's still the same, just seemingly more mature, and you know that already despite the small seconds you spent in her presence. The way she still wasn't afraid to get close to you; that's the worst one so far. A lot of people are scared of you but she isn't. She never has been and that still terrifies you.

No, she can't be out there. You've told yourself the same thing for the past five minutes, occasionally shifting from the window to the door and then back to the window again. Unfortunately, repeating the statement becomes ineffective rather quickly. You keep reassuring yourself that she won't be waiting for you beyond that door but no amount of words can really shake off the anxiety. You're nervous because you know if she touches you one more time, so much as a gentle caress of her hand on your cheek, you'll probably fall straight back into her. It's always been that way with Brittany.

Finally your hand is wrapped around the doorknob. You watch as your fingers tremble lightly, each muscle possessing its own fear. Though the chances of her being out there are quite low since it's been eight hours, you try not to have any expectations. So far, those haven't been working out for you especially the one where you _expected _she was a thousand miles away, not here.

You tell your brain to shut up and twist the knob open, finding an empty living room. As you step out further, the sliver of hope you have is destroyed because you hear chopping in the kitchen. You know that it's Quinn because Tina never cooks and Brittany finds recipes confusing. Oh wait, you told yourself you weren't supposed to remember that about her. The memory drops into your stomach and swells to make your insides suddenly feel tight and crammed together. Before coming into Quinn's view, you swallow hardly and take a deep breath.

"Hey," Quinn says delightfully but it hurts your ears a little. You feel bad, really, that things have been so unstable between the three of you. You never meant to push them out but in some cases, like yours, you didn't even realize how much things had changed until it was too late to fix anything.

You give a quiet single nod, avoiding direct eye contact as you come to lean against the back of the sofa chair that faces the kitchen. When you realize that you're standing in the same place she was last night, you shudder softly but stay put.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, pausing from her chopping to wait for your response.

"Fine," you answer more coldly than you had intended. Finally, you peer up at her and notice the casual nod she uses to acknowledge you. Quinn doesn't look too concerned and you like that about her. You know that it doesn't mean she isn't. Quinn knows you hate it when people look at you worriedly so she tries her best not to subject you to that.

"Making something?" you ask, crossing your hands over your chest.

"Stir fry," Quinn responds, "You interested?"

You're starving. You haven't eaten since yesterday and while the burn in your stomach may come from something else, you know it's partly because you're hungry.

"Sure," you tell her and watch how she smiles kindly at you.

You don't know why she's acting so casual, as if last night never happened. It makes you question, for a brief second, if you dreamt it all. Coming home, seeing her, storming out. Coming home again, seeing her again, telling her to leave. The thoughts puzzle you until you look around and find the spot in the room where she stood before you, so close that your mind was tripping on its own tracks. You remember her fingers on your chin too vividly for it to have been a dream. No, it was entirely real.

"Quinn," you say quietly and wait until she puts down her knife to pay attention to you. She leans forward with her hands on the counter as you continue, "You gonna tell me what's going on?'

She sighs, "Sit down, Santana." Her eyes gesture to the stool in front of you but you don't move. Quinn sighs again but doesn't make a second effort to tell you what to do.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you about her being in New York," she starts, wiping her hands on a hand cloth, "We just weren't sur—"

"How did you know she was coming?" you interrupt, desperate to know what they have yet to explain.

"We called her last month," Quinn says, "We were hoping she could…help."

You frown at her but don't put together the words to respond. Help with what? Everyone seems to be offering you help but you don't recall ever asking for it. It's pissing you off because you realize you must be coming off as weak; at least enough for them to assume you're in trouble.

"We sorta feel like you're…" she tries to say but hesitates, "…I don't know, is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine?" you answer as convincingly as you can, "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Come on, Santana," she says softly and it feels like a punch to the gut, "None of us really talk. You've been hiding out somewhere. It's like we don't even know each other anymore."

"We know each other fine," you say, "If anything, we know each other too much, Q. You still haven't answered my question."

"What's that?"

"Why was Brittany here yesterday?" you ask again.

"Santana, she was our last chance of…" Quinn tries but finds herself struggling to admit to the truth, "…she was our last chance of getting through to you."

You retract, eyes widening once you've figure it out. Of course they brought Brittany. They think something is wrong with you so they called up the one person who knows how to read you better than pen on paper, words in a book. You feel angry, heated, because you hate that Quinn and Tina went behind your back and contacted her. You feel weak because they went as far as to find Brittany again and lead her towards you. But the worst feeling right now, the one that you can feel ripping through you the most effectively, is that you know Quinn and Tina were probably entirely right to think Brittany could swoop in and be the one to fix you up. You think so because she's made one attempt so far and it took all your strength not to give in. You know so because she was always the best at putting you back together, even when you never asked her to.

"Call her," Quinn says gently, shifting over to the edge of the counter to grab the sticky note with a line of figures printed on it. She slides as far to the edge of the counter towards you as she can and you stare hardly. It's so strange to see those numbers knowing that punching them into a phone and hitting call is going to bring you to her.

"And why would I do that?" you ask disdainfully, glancing up as you shake your head, "I didn't ask her to come to New York."

"Get over yourself, Santana. She didn't come just for you," Quinn says harshly but in the way you've been used to for years now. Brittany told you she was here for school and work but she didn't say it the way Quinn just did. For some reason, hearing it out loud and point blank—that Brittany came here for other reasons too—makes you somewhat upset.

Sometimes we only notice something about ourselves because an explanation, a gesture, or any external factor, sheds light on that part of you. It can be scary at first, like a speeding car out of nowhere, but you just have to trust that it will slow down soon enough not to hit you. You didn't even realize you wanted to be what she came to New York for until that twist in your stomach told you so. You didn't even realize you still wanted something from Brittany.

"Brittany was already on her way when we contacted her," Quinn informs you but you stay a silent member of the conversation, eyes occasionally dropping to read the numbers again.

"You know, she's starting a term at Julliard in their dance program," Quinn adds.

"Good for her," you mutter under your breath but immediately regret it. There's a disgusting ache in your stomach and the taste of it pushes up into your throat. You feel like throwing up.

"What's wrong with you?" she snaps, standing upright, "I'm talking about Brittany."

You stay quiet, shrinking in your position because while you want to be mad and look tough, that ache is starting to rip you apart from the inside out. You've never spoken about Brittany that way before.

"Ever since you dropped out and started working at the ba—"

"Don't," you interrupt.

"No, I will," Quinn says firmly before continuing her previous idea, "I don't know if you're lost, or if something happened but you need to talk to us. Or…if not us, talk to her. It's like you're seventeen all over again, Santana."

"Why does everyone think something is wrong with me?" you say, standing up from the stool, "I don't remember asking anybody for help."

"We're your friends," Quinn says back, raising her voice, "You don't have to ask for us to know."

"That's funny," you chuckle rudely at the familiar response, "So do you and Tina and Brittany get together here and talk about me or do you do that at her place?"

"Jesus Christ, Santana," Quinn exclaims heatedly, "We're just looking out for you."

"I can take care of myself, Quinn" you say harshly, "I've been doing it for a hell of a long time."

"No you haven't," Quinn says, dropping the knife onto the cutting board and wiping her hands on the towel again, "You don't know how to take care of yourself because until you left Lima, that was Brittany's job."

"That's not tr—"

"It is," she forces, before tossing the towel onto the counter, "Make your own damn dinner."

You frown and watch as she leaves the kitchen and retreats to her bedroom. The door shuts before you have time to say anything, a comeback or an apology, whatever you had planned. You don't want to care but the force of that drop in your stomach makes it difficult to ignore that you feel horrible.

Your eyes fall to the counter and find that slip of paper again. You spend another moment glaring at it, contemplating what you want to do with it. A call would be so easy, punch in the numbers and wait for her to pick up, but what would you say? What would anyone say if they were in your situation? You haven't spoken to Brittany since the two of you broke up back in Lima. Okay, there was the occasional email back and forth for the first few months after you moved here but until then, you don't have any new memories with her. All the ones you have are from high school, and middle school, and primary school. It's crazy how long you've known her for. It's even crazier how much of that time knowing her you spent loving her too.

You shake the thoughts away because they become too personal, too emotionally involved for your liking. The sticky note begs you to use the numbers but you don't, you just turn and walk back to your room.

"Hey," Tina calls out as she makes her way to the couch from her room, stopping you from moving any further. You turn around like a slug, sinking in your position.

"Ugh, not you too, Tina," you groan. If she's about to give you the same lecture, you might consider leaving the apartment for the night. You weren't going to go out because you're physically exhausted but after this, you just might have to.

"Come sit," she requests. When she notices that you don't move, she turns her look into a glare. Tina is quite intimidating when she wants to be. Last night, she was scared of you so she didn't show that side of her. She knew that you weren't going to take it well and she always backs down when you're mad because she wants to give you space. But when you're acting stupid, like right now, she takes all the control.

"Sit," Tina orders this time. You sigh in irritation before dragging your feet towards the sofa chair adjacent to the couch she's sitting on. You do have a little weakness for Tina. When you first noticed it, it didn't make any sense. It still doesn't so much but that soft spot has lasted years and you think it might be because she understands you differently. Quinn knows you but she's not afraid to make you feel bad and argue. Tina knows you but she talks it out with you, she rarely ever fights back. Maybe that's why.

"What," you say rudely, plopping yourself down like a sack of potatoes.

"Are you okay?" she asks with concern.

You reach your arms up, reading to push yourself out of the chair because you don't want to sit here and do this again. She stops you though, not even with a touch but with her tone of voice. It startles you.

"Santana," she says strongly, "You're going to sit and you're going to talk to me. Look, I'm sorry about last night. We didn't mean to upset you."

"Well clearly," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes away from her. You're staring at your bedroom door now as if it could save you from this conversation.

"Have you talked to Brittany?" Tina wonders, still maintaining her firm but positive tone.

You shake your head, "I don't have anything to say to her."

"Really?" Tina says, "Does that work for you?"

"What?" you ask, turning with a frown.

"Pretending not to care," Tina says directly. That's always been how Tina operates; straight to the point. Maybe that's why you favor her; she doesn't bullshit.

"I know you haven't seen her in a while but it's Brittany," she states.

"I don't understand what you're trying to pro—"

"And so you can't just _not_ talk to her, Santana," Tina explains over your voice, "It's _Brittany_."

* * *

"At least she's talking to us again," Tina says, tugging her feet up onto the sofa chair.

"Yeah," Quinn agrees, "Still a bitch, though."

"You sound surprised?" Tina responds, scoffing humorously. Quinn chuckles quietly along with her. It's no news that Santana still has an attitude, a sharp and vicious one that seems to have grown over the years. They're not careful about being loud because Santana decided to go out at around 8:00pm.

"Brittany's right," Tina says, changing the topic after some time, "Something hit her last year. How could she not talk to us about it? We're her best friends."

"But she's never really opened up to us entirely," Quinn reminds her, "She always left that for Britt."

"Do you think she had something to do with it?" Tina wonders, "Brittany?"

"I don't know," Quinn answers, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the counter, "The thing is…Santana was fine for the first year and a half after they broke up."

"Was she though?" Tina questions, causing Quinn to hold her tongue and retract the words she had prepared next.

The girls fall silent, exploring the possibility of Tina's voiced doubt. They hadn't really thought about it. Santana wasn't troubled in those first years but then again, she's an expert at pretending to be something she isn't. On top of that, Quinn and Tina have been so busy in the last year with college and work that it wouldn't have been too hard to miss any signs leading up to Santana dropping out of college.

"What are you saying?" Quinn wonders, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Well, you saw them in high school," Tina says with a shrug, "They were crazy about each other. They went from being in love to not speaking. I don't believe Santana was honest about being okay that first year."

"I guess she wasn't," Quinn confesses as it dawns on her, "I found her crying a couple times and I tried to help but you know Santana. She's too damn proud."

"That's what'll kill her in the end," Tina adds with a sigh. They hate talking about Santana like she's a victim but it seems that's exactly what she is. They still have to find reasons.

Santana left the apartment shortly after the small outburst with Quinn in the kitchen and short talk with Tina. Quinn and Tina have been sitting here ever since, only now just getting into the momentum of this topic of discussion. Now that they think about it, they feel like they have let the past year slip straight through their fingers.

"You think there's still something there?" Quinn wonders out loud, voicing the thought that crossed her mind, "Between them?"

"I don't know," Tina shrugs.

"I mean, Santana hasn't mentioned her in years and Brittany didn't say anything about still having feelings for her," Quinn continues, proving a point.

"But she didn't say anything about not being in love with her either," Tina adds with another shrug, "I don't know, when they're together…it just feels so…emotional."

Quinn hesitates, contemplating the details of the information being passed around right now. Her brow furrows, thinking hardly for a moment, before standing up from the stool. She walks over to her purse on the couch and digs through it to pull out her phone.

"What are you doing?" Tina asks, following Quinn's movements with a confused look.

"I'm calling Britt," Quinn explains as she finds the number and presses the device to her ear. She watches as Tina mouths 'Why?' but ignores it because Brittany's voice comes through seconds later.

"_Hello?"_

"Hey!" Quinn greets, pulling the stool out towards her so she can sit down, "How are you?"

"_Hi Quinn. I'm alright, tired from class. How are you? How's Tina?"_

"Tina's good, we're fine," Quinn answers before clearing her throat to signal that a more sensitive subject is approaching, "Um…Britt, I wanted to ask—"

"_Wait, Quinn. I'm actually glad you called. I want to say something."_

Quinn's brow knots to form a frown, confused by Brittany's sudden interruption. Not hearing any of this, Tina gestures to put her on speakerphone to which Quinn presses the loud button and places the phone on the counter.

"_I'm not sure about this whole Santana thing."_

"What do you mean?" Quinn asks with concern.

"What's going on?" Tina whispers and Quinn fills her in quickly before continuing.

"It's only been a day since she saw you," Quinn explains to Brittany, "Give it some time, she'll come around."

"_No, it's not that."_

"Then what's wrong, Britt?" Tina asks, sharing another look of concern with Quinn.

There's a pregnant pause, one that is indecipherable for Tina and Quinn. They don't know what to expect or what brought this on. Brittany seemed willing to help yesterday and in the call last month.

"_I…I don't know if I can be involved right now."_

"With helping Santana?" Quinn says in response. They can hear Brittany sigh and shuffle the phone lightly.

"_Please don't be mad. I'm not trying to makes things worse, I jus—"_

"You still love her," Tina states bravely, glancing to Quinn with a lifted brow. Tina isn't certain about it so her statement is rather a bold assumption than a fact. Brittany remains silent for the time being.

"Do you, Britt?" Quinn follows.

"_Is it that obvious?" _

Tina's hand comes up to her chest and places it against her heart, gesturing the sympathy. They can't help but feel a little guilty for having brought Brittany into this without spending enough time thinking about the consequences it would have on her life.

"Britt, we didn't…" Tina starts but finds herself struggling, "We didn't realize."

"You were coming here for more than just school, weren't you?" Quinn asks, only now seeing that it makes sense as to why Brittany chose New York out of all places to go to school. She remembers what she told Santana earlier about Brittany's motives and realizes they're now slightly incorrect.

"_Don't tell her okay?" _

They frown, Quinn leaning forward to speak, "What?"

"_Santana doesn't need one more thing to worry about."_

Tina and Quinn share a look of both intrigue and concern towards each other. They don't quite know how to respond. Quinn had initially called to ask Brittany if they could make plans sometime soon in hope to discuss this very possibility. She didn't, however, expect Brittany to be so upfront about it; her feelings for Santana.

Tina wears a look that plays between the boundaries of surprise. She knew there was still something between them but she didn't know whether her theories were entirely true. Not until now.

"_Guys…please don't tell her."_

"Okay," Quinn finally agrees, "We won't mention it."

"_Thank you."_

"So what does this mean, Britt?" Tina follows, "Are you bailing?"

"_No, of course not."_

"So…" Quinn drags out the word, glancing to Tina as they wait for a response.

"_I just need some time to figure out how I'm supposed to get her back."_

Tina looks over to Quinn and notices the small curve at the corner of her lips. Quinn sits back, crossing her hands over her chest at Brittany's statement. Tina leans forward towards the phone to say something.

"It might not be as hard as you think."

* * *

The burn is worse tonight, shooting up your nasal like a breath of fire as it tears through your skin. Your eyes clench shut and you stumble backwards into something, a wall maybe, and rest your head against it. The sting lasts so much longer than you normally remember it to, like riding a roller coaster that you can't stand to be on anymore. It passes, eventually, but still lingering is the aftermath feeling that leaves you on the brink of consciousness. You swear you might collapse to the floor because your head spins wildly and you're afraid to open your eyes again.

You came here to escape from the countless interventions people keep setting up in your apartment. After talking with Tina, an hour later, you decided to go out and get your mind off of everything. It was increasingly unbearable sitting in your room with nothing to do but listen to the thoughts in your head.

"Ey, Santana?" a voice calls out, "There's enough left for another go, you in?"

Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose hardly, as if applying pressure is going to help though you know it won't. The stuff is already inside you, sneaking slowly through your system like a predator approaching its prey.

"Well?" another voice asks.

The questions make you want to lash out because the state you're in destroys your ability to perceive and react normally. They come shooting towards you like bullets. It makes you nauseous, the voices, because it feels like little tiny hammers tapping at boundaries of your skull.

"Fuck," you breathe out and look up to their expecting glances, "No…no, I'm done." They eye you suspiciously before shrugging and diving back in, literally.

You blink once, hardly, before wiping your nose with the back of your hand and searching the apartment you vaguely recognize. You're at her house, that girl from the bar who has her eye out for you and few others of your so called friends. Ironically, the only thing you all have in common is the drugs. You stumble around a little bit, entering a hallway towards the bathroom.

"Hey," a voice says and you spin around, finding her standing behind you. She laughs to herself, "You alright there?"

She has a name, Peyton, but you try not to say it as much as possible. You have an attraction to her but only because she's just a body you can press up against if you suddenly you feel lonely. She doesn't take away your loneliness; she just blurs it for you temporarily. Once she's gone though, you're confronted with no change. That's how you know whatever you have with her is superficial and insignificant. Mostly though, because you actually _do know_ what a connection is supposed to feel like. You were reminded of that sensation this morning.

It's darker in the hallway and you can hear the distant chatter of the people huddled somewhere behind the wall. Your eyes drop to the ground and notice how it appears fluid, like trying to balance on a waterbed. You remind yourself that it's not moving, it's only your vision, but the words of reassurance don't make the world any less distorted. Your head throbs uncomfortably, the small veins at your temples contracting so heavily that you can feel the skin rise and fall to the beats. With that, it's almost as if you can hear the working processes of your body and you shudder.

You're not going home. There is too much there that you aren't ready to confront. The names speed across your mind; Quinn, Tina, but then there's Brittany and your thoughts come to a complete stop as if you reached out a hand and caught her as she flew by with the others. Voices keep echoing around but they're insignificant like they don't even matter, not when she's on your mind.

"Whoah," she says and grips your shoulders. You didn't even realize you were falling.

You become aware of the chills hovering ghostly above your skin, luring the hairs on your arm to stand up. Everything feels wrong. Her hands holding you, they feel entirely wrong; worse than they have before. This is how Brittany crawls inside your head. She's doing this to you, making everything that isn't her seem wrong, and you aren't even in the same building.

Brittany is the scratching that you feel underneath your skin and you don't want to feel it anymore. There's only one thing you can think of that might make the itch disappear, even if it only lasts for the time that you do it. Sometimes we try anything, do anything, for one small outcome that will only benefit us for a short time. It's an irrational and unsustainable method but you use it anyway, thinking that one less moment of sparing this ache in your chest is better than one more moment of feeling it.

After snapping from your thoughts, you glance at Peyton who smiles slyly. The adrenaline keeps kicking in, quickening your heart beat as it thumps in your chest. Your hands are shaking, foot tapping against the floor in an unrecognizable rhythm. Finally you push your body against hers and into a bedroom. Lips crash together, roughly, and she stumbles back as you shut the door with your foot.

"Mmph," she grumbles, trying to pull back so she can see you, "Santana…"

"Shut up," you say against her lips, hands rushing up to the hem of her shirt, "Lift your arms."

She does so accordingly and you slide the item off of her. She stops fighting you and you're glad that you don't have to do anymore talking. You push her into a wall and press against her, feeling your bodies align so incongruently that it almost makes you sick. She doesn't feel right but you try not to think about the reason being because you _know _what 'right' feels like. You try not to let yourself get carried away with thoughts about where you should be right now, whose lips you should be kissing.

To stop such conclusions from forming, you force your mouth on hers and let the adrenaline do the work for you. No matter how hard you try, though, none of this means anything. None of it will ever mean anything. Absolutely nothing at all.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, I've been busy this week so I really apologize for not getting this up sooner. I've been quite stressed with school so I'm sorry if my writing seems a bit sluggish. I really hope it's okay! Anyways, enjoy the chapter. **

***SPOILER HINT FOR 4x04 IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED* I'm giving you all hugs because I know this week was a hard week for us Brittana shippers. Hard being the understatement of a lifetime. I love you all so very much and please ask that you stay hopeful. I'll try my best to console you with this fic and I think it will because I'll explain now that Ghosts That We Knew is a love story. That's all I'll say. **

**Notes about the chapter: **

**- Just to clarify, this events of this chapter happened in one day  
- B****rittany is still in love with Santana :)  
- Santana has taken a few steps backwards so that she's practically like that seventeen and terrified girl she was except she's twenty-one and terrified.**

**xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Bumps and Bruises (The Ones You Can Fix)**

The paradox of waiting never fails to puzzle us. It's the easiest and the hardest thing to do. We can wait for five minutes; we can wait for five hours. We can wait for something good to happen; we can wait for something bad. The time we spend waiting can be exciting, anticipating; the time we spend waiting can be dreadful, painful. We can wait for something; we can wait for someone. We can wait for a beginning; we can wait for an end. We can wait for nothing at all. The things that we wait for in a lifetime will change every now and then but waiting is always the easiest and the hardest thing to do.

You wait, between the breaths of an unwanted body lying beside you. You wait with the company of silence, counting the seconds as they pass you by. You wait for her to fall asleep but she never does because you realize that she's waiting too.

"Was that okay?" she asks, finally destroying the thick burden hanging in the air.

You swallow, and wait a little longer. You grip the edge of the bed sheet in fists, pulling it tightly over your chest to cover your body. A voice would be useful right now, if you had one, but you don't. It's lodged somewhere it can't escape, stuck between fear and disgust.

She sits up and turns to you, eyes peering down austerely. You spend a split second in her eyes before the twist in your stomach kicks in and you look away.

"Santana?" she says quietly.

"Don't talk," you spit coldly, pushing a cracked voice from your throat.

"What?" she says.

The energy regenerates in your system to give you the strength to sit up. She follows your movements with her stare but you keep your eyes hidden and swing your legs over the edge. You bend down and find your clothes, dressing yourself as quickly as you can.

"You don't have to run away from me," she says sadly.

You sigh heavily, standing up to pull on your jeans. A head rush follows immediately, temporarily knocking the wind out of you. You place a hand behind you on the bed to maintain balance. The drugs must still be in your system.

Once you button your jeans, you run an anxious hand through your hair and comb it several times. You wait it out a little, allowing a few seconds to regain your sanity. You search for your bag but after scanning the room, you remember that it's outside…where the other people are. You completely forgot that you weren't alone in the apartment and now you can't leave without passing by them. You shut your eyes momentarily before huffing and making your way towards the door. It doesn't matter anymore. You need to get out of here.

"Santana…"

"Okay just stop," you snap, turning around in frustration, "We are not doing this. We are not going to talk about our feelings. You and I are not anything. Trust me, you don't want me."

"You don't know—"

"No but I do," you interrupt, "I'm not here because I like you. And I'm not some broken little case that you think you can fix. Stop trying. Either you accept that or you fuck off. It's really not that complicated."

You don't even stay to watch her reaction. The slamming of the door immediately cuts you off from hearing anything else that she might have wanted to say. You glance around and see a few people passed out on the couch but most of them to have seemingly left. Since there is nobody to approach you in the distance you'll walk from her bedroom to the front door, you sigh in relief.

There's a hollow energy in your stomach, like an empty hole sucking parts of you into the abyss. You crave the sound of New York City and once you push open the heavy door and step out onto the streets, you feel that resonating clench in your body weaken. You breathe in, you breathe out. These moments of tranquility make the past hour feel like suffocation.

Once you've caught your breath, you start on your way home. The horns and the revving of vehicles are like music to your ears because you need something to fill the void inside you completely. You keep sending air in and out carefully, trying to maintain a steady rate because the ground doesn't feel too stable. In fact, now that you're looking out and around you, the world seems off and coming slightly unhinged.

Your eyes blink tightly but it only exacerbates the dizziness. Sometimes you can't be so sure that it's the drugs anymore. The effects are said to wear off in twenty or thirty minutes tops yet recently, you've been soaring way past the time spans, feeling lost and nauseous long after your last dose.

A force crashes with you suddenly and you stumble backwards. You try to regain balance but find it difficult since balance doesn't exist in the world you're seeing right now.

"Sorry," the man mutters and flees.

You glance up once you've stopped tripping, trying to identify the body that just bumped into you. You shake your head because your vision isn't exactly spot on and the red and yellow that flashes by in the street only increases the intensity of distortion.

"Santana?" you hear someone call your name. Even now, the voice is familiar. You glance up only because there's suddenly an arm at your shoulder that's keeping you upright. She's recognizable anywhere and in any state you're in. You could pinpoint her from a hundred feet away in the pouring rain. You could find her even when lost in the craziest of worlds you've experienced. You can do that because she's always the same. She's a constant, your constant, and she's always the same.

"Uh…Brittany?" you stammer, finding it difficult to keep your eyes from blurring. Your nose stings temporarily and feels warm, increasingly warm. You squint, trying to shake out of this hazy state of mind.

"I was just heading ba—oh my god, Santana, you're bleeding," she says worriedly, eyes widening as she takes a step closer. Her hand on your shoulder guides you both to the side so you're not blocking pedestrian traffic.

"What? Oh…" you say, reaching up to feel the spot underneath your nose. That's what the warmth was, blood. You wipe your upper lip and look at your hand, feeling a guttural twist when you see your palm stained red.

Her hands are now gripping both your shoulders and keeping you steady. The blood keeps coming and you can taste the metallic bitterness on your lips. You push your fingers to block your nostrils and wave her off.

"It's fine…" you insist even though you know it isn't. They say when the first nosebleed comes around, the second, the third, the fourth and so on follow quickly and with shorter waiting periods in between. Basically, you start experiencing them hours after your every dose. This is your first, and it picked a horrible time to start.

"No, you're bleeding," she forces, suddenly grabbing your hand in hers and dragging you the way she seemed to have just come from, "Here, come with me."

"No, really," you stop her, trying to wiggle free, "I can—"

"Come with me," she says strongly and pulls you before you can reject her again. She takes you around the block and with about a minute of walking, you seemed to have arrived somewhere. You can't really see anything because your head is tilted back and your hand is in your face trying to stop the blood from dripping out like an open tap. You aren't too sure if any of this is happening or if you're actually passed out somewhere and this is dream. It surely feels like one when she has your hand in hers.

When you open your eyes after closing them momentarily, the brightness shatters your vision. You're in a building. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling, passing by like white stripes on a highway run, inflict tiny sharp pinches behind your eyes. You don't even remember that she's holding your hand until you feel her readjust her grip, tightening it so that you can't run. She must have noticed how you tensed.

"How are you holding up?" she asks, and you think she may have looked back at you, "We're almost there."

Shortly, you hear the fumbling of keys and you become aware that she must be using one hand to pick the lock because the other is still holding yours. You miss her touch. You almost think that you like it. Of course you do. You've always loved the way she would hold your hand and it would make you feel like it was the only thing keeping you grounded to earth. With Brittany, it's so damn easy to float away to somewhere that allows the two of you to be you and her, just you and her.

She pushes the door open and you tilt your head down a little bit, gaining a better perspective of your surroundings. You're in a dance studio, catching a glimpse of the two of you walking in the wall mirror to your right. There's a room on the other end, like an office, and you're walking towards it. When you get there, she finally releases your hand. The warmth on your palm disappears, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of her touch, the puff of dust from the fleeing of her comfort.

"Here, sit down," she instructs and you follow orders by taking a seat on the stool she gestured to.

With your hand still closing your nose, you watch her. She drops her keys on the desk and runs a hand through her long hair, searching around the room for what she needs. She turns around and walks to the cabinet where she pulls out a first aid kit. You don't know what you find so fascinating about her but the way she moves; you could study her for hours. There's always something to admire in Brittany, from something as simple as her long blonde hair to something as profound as the pattern that her heart beats.

She returns to you, carrying the black bag labeled with a red cross. She sets it down and zips it open, pulling out what she needs. You don't know what she's going to do with you but you're not too worried. If anyone knows how to take care of you, it's Brittany.

"Alright," she says, reaching between her legs to pull a stool underneath her to sit in front of you, "Pull your hand away."

"Really, I'm fine," you try to convince her but she doesn't fall for it. She's so stern and it intrigues you.

"Santana…" she says strictly and there's no way you can fight her. You do as she says, slowly releasing the grip on your nose. It feels sore and you wince, squinting so she becomes less visible.

"Easy," she breathes softly, leaning in. You're heart jumps into motion, pushing beats against your chest. Her hand reaches up and wipes the stained area on your face with a cool pad of cotton. She lets her eyes wander a little more than you would have expected, seemingly to your hairline, to your jaw, to your nose. She focuses there briefly, assessing her job at cleaning off the blood, but then she looks up and meets your eyes. Now you can see them as clear as day, her blue. But they're bluer, like the color of sky in late June without a cloud in sight.

It itches at one point and you scrunch your nose. You hear her chuckle quietly but even a sound that soft from her ignites your system. When she's around, you feel alive. You feel like she's the healthy electricity running through your veins, keeping your heart beating and your blood pumping.

"Hold still," she says through a smile.

"Sorry," you murmur, connecting your eyes.

She shakes her head, trying not to laugh, and you adore the way she fights a smile. For a second, right now, you want to be the reason her lips curve up. You want to be the one that makes her heart skip a little. This isn't the drugs talking, and you know it. You've felt this before. Hell, this was all you ever felt for years. Maybe you can't keep running anymore. After all, she's the only one who ever noticed enough and begged you to stop.

Her movements lose pressure and become gentle, softly brushing the material over your nose in calm strokes. You feel yourself slip away because she starts grazing the side of your cheek. The drugs that still course through your system contribute to the ease of drifting off. Your eyes flutter shut and you lean in subconsciously. Before you know it, her strokes are almost dragged out completely, moving back and forth at a pace so slow that it lures you to sleep. She's supporting you in ways you haven't felt supported in a while.

Your chest expands for your growing heart, whatever of it there is left. You haven't been in touch with it, your heart, in a long time. You realize that not only do you miss Brittany but you miss everything about the way she made you feel. Like that little hop your heart just took, you miss that. And the nervous flutter in your stomach, that's another one. Her hands on your cheek—then you snap out of it and remember where you are, what you're doing, what she's doing. Your eyes peel open and delve immediately into ocean blue orbs. It startles you briefly, like falling off a surfboard into rough waters, but you try hard enough to reestablish reality in your head.

She notices the small panic in your expression and lifts her brow worriedly. She spends a few more seconds there, holding you, before she slowly drags her hand away and breaks from your gaze. You know that she only did it because of the look on your face. You didn't want her to pull away, not really, but she knows that you were scared. Brittany has never made you do anything you weren't ready to do and apparently, that's still the case now.

"Um…" she flushes, hanging her head, "Well, it stopped bleeding. That's good."

"Oh…yeah," you manage to add, reaching up to wipe anything else away. It still stings inside your nose but the blood has stopped flowing so that's better progress than none.

She pushes herself backwards on the stool with her feet, creating distance. She fixes a couple more cotton pads with the substance and gives them to you for your hands. You're confused at first but understand eventually once you follow her eyes and glance down at your palms, soaked in blood. It makes you nauseas for a second, seeing so much red and knowing it came from you.

You reach for the cotton but it sticks to the blood on your fingers and starts to tear. You try again but it doesn't work. Frustrated, you look up at her and noticed her lifted brow.

"Do you…" she hesitates, "…need help?"

You shrug nervously, eyes gesturing to the dilemma you have in your hands—literally, "Uh…yeah."

She swallows with a weak smile and scoots closer again. She takes one of your hands and places it on top of her palm. She takes the piece of cotton, now slightly stained, and starts wiping off the blood. It tickles but you do all you can in your power to stop from reacting. Every few seconds, she readjusts her hold on your hand and it sends tiny sparks shooting down your arm each time. These things don't just happen with everybody.

"Do you get those often?" she asks but you don't really process it quickly enough. You stare at her confusedly and she stares back until she realizes she has to repeat the question.

"The nosebleeds?" she rephrases, continuing her strokes.

"Oh, uh…no," you stutter, "No."

"Did you hit your face somewhere?" she asks, "Like when you bumped into the stranger."

You swallow nervously, "You saw that?"

She nods, slightly suspicious because the way you responded sounded like someone had a hand wrapped around your throat. She looks down at your palms again, focusing so hard on her job that you begin to think she'll make them cleaner than they had been before the blood.

"Where are we?" you wonder.

"This is Julliard," she informs you, eyes meeting again, "I-I study here."

Your lips part naturally, "Oh…right."

Her head tilts to the side, eyebrow quirking upwards at your abundance of knowledge. She never told you about where she was studying. You bite your lip nervously, feeling the urge hold her again, to draw her closer to you. You don't necessarily like the distance anymore.

"Quinn…told me," you explain.

The silence is heavy from the weight of tension between the two of you. Most of what sits in your history is unresolved and it feels like everything is slowly come back to pay a visit. When you glance up, you notice how nervous she looks. You hate that you've been so cold to her in the last day and half. When you were around her, you could never get away with being mean or rude without feeling immensely guilty. Even if when you were addressing someone else; if she was around, it felt like a conscious on your shoulder reminding you that you can do better than insults and snarky comments. In a way she was your guardian angel. She saved you from your own wrath. Your heart picks up pace at the thought, telling you there's a good chance she can still be that person if you let her.

"You're good," she says, and if she hadn't stopped wiping your hands and shifted backwards, you would have thought she was talking about something else. She was referring to the cleaning; you look down and notice that your hands are almost their natural color again.

She stands up and throws away the drenched cotton wads into the trash. All you can see is a heavy glob of red and you feel bad that she spent that last five minutes scraping blood off your face and hands.

"Brittany…" you start but feel like her name alone is already too much to say. She lifts up with a sliver of hope in her eyes like maybe this time you won't send her away. It drowns you, her gaze, and suddenly you can't remember what you planned on saying.

"Uh…thank you," you say instead, knowing it wasn't what you wanted to tell her. You wanted to apologize for last night, for the past two years. You want to tell her you're sorry.

Apparently, what you _did _say was enough because her face lights up like a fast forwarded motion of the sun rising. She smiles softly and for a split second, it feels like you're back in high school where she was yours and you were hers.

"Of course," she says sweetly.

"I uh…I should go," you tell her and watch how hard she tries to keep herself in one piece. You're hurting her; you can see it so clearly on her face. You know something now. You know she still feels for you, the way you still feel for her.

"Right…" she agrees but not willingly. She moves over to the desk and packs up the first aid kit. She returns it to the cupboard shortly afterwards, her back facing you.

You quickly take the time to regain your composure. You reach to wipe your face again, feeling your nose slightly sore from the bleeding. It's a sign and you know very well what it's warning you. You stand up as she's turning back around, wiping your hands on the sides of your thighs. She offers you a gentle nod before you twist and head for the door to leave. You hear her footsteps behind you and then the sound of her keys rattling against each other on the chain.

As you pull the door open and prepare to step back out into the dance studio, her hand reaches over your shoulder and pushes it straight back shut. The slam startles you but the entire world disappears when you feel her breathe against your ear and her body heat spreading across your back. Your heart freezes mid-beat and your stomach tightens feverishly.

"Tell me to stop and I promise I'll stop."

Her words fly so smoothly into your ear and you shudder at the tone of her voice. Your heart is beating at the bottom of your throat like a broken metronome—thump thu-thump th-th-thump. There's a breath caught in your lungs and you can't release it.

"Just say the word," she whispers, stepping that much closer so your front and her back are flush against each other.

She spends another second breathing beside your face, sending chills all over your body. It feels invigorating and terrifying at the same time. Your lips part as you staring hardly at the door, waiting for something to be said. You know it's your turn to speak, to give her an answer, but your voice is trapped, like something caught on a fence. You don't want her to stop.

Before you know it, she places a hand at your waist and turns you slowly. You're still holding your breath. How are you supposed to breathe when she's this close to you?

At the same time, she steps in so you end up facing her with your back against the door. Her arm is stretched and hand flat on the wall beside your head. You can see her so clearly now as if the concept of being dizzy doesn't and never did exist. You don't know what the world used to look like, how screwed it up it was, you just see what you see now and it's refreshing.

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and leans in. You don't think that a heart is supposed to beat this fast. You're pretty sure that any quicker and it'll crack the space in your chest, burst, flat line. Finally, you suck in a desperate breath and hold it in your lungs. With your eyes burning into each other's so violently, you keep forgetting to keep a steady breathing pattern.

You can see all that you remembered in the blue orbs projected inches away from you. She's that close, heartbeats away. You know that while the hair has grown out and the personality has been tweaked slightly with age, this is still Brittany, _your _Brittany, and you still want her so much.

You think she's going to kiss you, right on the lips as soft as she knows how. You don't want to stop her because you've long passed the point where you could control your movements. It's as if you gave her the permission and now that she has power, she's taking her time with you. Normally, you wouldn't allow such an imbalance between you and another person but you don't mind this one at all.

Her lips are nothing but breaths away from yours. She keeps stealing your air like it's a competition. You shift to her lips and watch as they part naturally. You didn't realize how much you still wanted this. Then you shut your eyes tightly, waiting for whatever there is to come next. The seconds that follow seem like minutes until you feel her lips press gently against your forehead. It surprises you but your reaction soon melts along with your heart and your body. She keeps them pressed there, warm lips against your skin, and you blow out the breath that you were holding.

Of course she kissed you there. Brittany would never make you do anything you weren't ready to do. Your chest expands, even as she pulls away and draws back. Your eyes stay closed despite being sure that she's now looking at you. You know how you can feel when someone is staring and it becomes uncomfortable? Well, not with her. You can feel her gaze on you, admiring whatever she thinks there is to admire, and it's one of your favorite things. She makes you into something beautiful.

* * *

You throw the hand cloth over your shoulder, inspecting the scotch glass you just cleaned. You set it down next on the shelf with the rest you've already gotten through. Friday nights are the busiest so you have to spend more time preparing enough glasses and other drinking equipment in order for the night to run smoothly.

There's a knot in your stomach but not the type to make you feel nervous or disturbed. It's more like strings of anticipation wired up inside you and you can kind of guess why they're there. You keep thinking about the moment in the office with Brittany last night; the way she made you feel like you were seventeen all over again and she could protect you. You've been avoiding the thought of her for a good year and a half now but you can't stand here anymore and deny the truth. You've been through this before—the stages of denial—and you're not ignorant enough to make the same mistakes.

"Hey," someone says from the side and you turn to find Puck.

You nod at him without words and return back to cleaning the next glass. He makes his way around the counter and sits in the stool in front of you. He scratches the length of his mohawk and pulls out his phone, snorting a manly sniff as he scrolls through messages and what not. You and Puck do this quite often; keep each other company without really attempting a conversation. You both understand that sometimes being there is good enough.

It's these moments where you really notice what the drugs are doing to you. When you're high, every little thing frustrates you. Your temper sky rockets and you're always at the edge of being pushed off of something. You hate that the last time you were with Puck, you yelled at him for butting in your business. They make you insane, the drugs. The world turns into a shark tank and you're the wannabe alpha trying to act touch when really you're just the weakest one. The person you become under the influence of drugs isn't who you are. She's something violent and troubled. She's tragic.

"You're thinking again…" he says without lifting his eyes to you.

"Huh?" you say dumbly, returning to your glass.

"You've been staring at that chair back there for like a minute," he explains with a smirk.

"I spaced, leave me alone," you say with the slightest hint of playfulness in your tone.

"Anything up?" he asks considerately, finally putting down his phone to pay attention to you. Puck is not a saint but he's a good guy. And when he wants to be, he can be the guy everybody loves to love. He's grown a lot since high school, the both of you have. The only difference between you and him, though, is that he managed to keep going while you seemed to have made progress and then thrown it all away.

"Nah," you say, waving him off as you set down another clean glass.

"Hey…" he says and you freeze, "There's, uh, something I've been meaning to tell you but I just…I haven't been sure if I should."

You have no idea what this could be about and frankly, it's frightening you. Puck rarely ever makes his sincere voice so when it comes out, like right now, you think it deserves a small panic attack.

"But…I think I saw Brittany," he confesses and your head snaps up to him. He looks so cautious, as if he's ready to either dodge from a punch or sprint around and catch you before you collapse.

"I swear it was her," he continues, "She was walking down, uhh, I can't remember where but yeah…I thought you should know, in case…"

You let go of the anxious breath you were holding, sighing in relief. Even though you didn't have any presumptions as to what Puck could have said instead, you're glad that it ended up being something you were already aware of.

"Yeah," you breathe out, "It was her."

"You know?" he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"Came home Wednesday night and she was there," you explain briefly and watch him huff, "Apparently Quinn and Tina called her."

"Wait," Puck says, shifting in his seat, "She came to New York for you?"

"Not exactly," you say, "She's going to Juilliard."

"The school?" he exclaims.

"No, Julliard the fucking dry cleaners on 76th," you respond sarcastically.

Puck rolls his eyes and ignores your comment, focusing on the important note, "So she's here for good?"

You shrug, finishing the last glass and placing it onto the shelf. You pick up the empty tray and stack it where the rest are, moving around the bar area during your conversation.

"Have you talked to her?" he probes. You steal a glance towards him as he leans on the counter, awaiting your response. You make your way back to him with a bottle of Kleenex in your hand, spraying the surface before grabbing the towel off your shoulder and wiping it down.

"Sort of," you mutter, lengthening your strokes.

"What does that mean?"

"What's with the third degree, Puckerman?" you snap, "I'm working."

He sighs, "Alright, alright. Just let me know if I can help."

You slow your movements because suddenly you feel guilty. In fact, guilt is tying another knot in your stomach and this one is definitely the type to make you feel unnerved. The last time he mentioned help, you screamed at him for assuming you needed it. It was the same with Quinn too. You keep warning everyone that asks to stop trying to help but maybe you shouldn't be so quick to reject anymore.

God, now you know that your sober moments are the reason you turn to drugs. They're so frustrating. You think too much when you're normal and the coke just makes it all blurry for you. But something is different now and you can't help but wonder whether it has to do with Brittany. You think you might want to straighten up and try not to be so angry and isolated. You've wasted so much time and potential. You started off in New York with hope and then you lost it. You can't believe it, but you think you might want to get it all back.

Brittany, though she drives you crazy, makes you think properly. She screws your head back on and makes you see what you've chosen to be blind for. She sheds light on things you've been avoiding. Quinn and Tina, though you still hate them for it out of spite, were entirely right to have thought of her. They did what you didn't have the courage to do; find Brittany and bring her back into your life.

* * *

"You did what?" Tina exclaims into the phone.

"_I kissed her on the forehead."_

"I can't even believe she let you that close to her," Tina says, still in shock, "I thought it would take a bit longer for her to warm up to you but jeez."

"_It wasn't like that. Santana is still…she's still conflicted."_

"Yeah," Tina huffs, "Tell me about it. Did she talk to you about anything yet?"

"_We didn't exactly talk that much."_

"Ooh?" she responds playfully and Brittany starts to giggle.

"_Tina! God, it wasn't like that. I was cleaning up her nosebleed."_

"Wait, what?" Tina says, face falling serious at the detail.

"_Yeah, it was weird. I was on my way home and I saw her. I went up to her after some stranger bumped into her because it looked like she was going to fall. She was really…uncoordinated, I don't know. Anyways, her nose started bleeding so I took her back to the dance studio and helped her out."_

"Did someone hit her?" Tina questions, brow furrowing in confusion.

"_No, I mean...I don't think so. It just started bleeding. Plus, I think she'd be more upset if someone hit her. She seemed fine. __Well, as far as I know. I haven't seen her since last night. Did she seem fine today?"_

"I only saw her in the morning because I had to get to class but, yeah. She seemed fine," Tina recounts, pressing the phone closer towards her ear, "Actually, that's strange. I saw her this morning. I never see her in the mornings."

"_What do you mean?"_

"She's either crashing at someone else's place or she's still sleeping until noon," she explains, remembering the events of this morning and wondering why she didn't notice that it was the first time she had seen Santana up that early in a while.

"_Hmm…I don't know. I just told her to get some rest because she looked so tired."_

"She must have listened to you," Tina assumes, "I heard her come back at around 9:30 last night. Was that shortly after you saw her?"

"_Right after. I was at my night class that ended at 8:30. When I was walking home and saw her, I think it was about 9 already. It took a good fifteen minutes to fix her up and then she left." _

"Wow," Tina says with surprise, "Brittany…whatever you're doing, keep it up. Maybe she's going to come through."

"_Do you think she, uh, she still..."_

"Loves you?" she finishes, helping Brittany out since she seemed to be struggling with the words. She stays quiet and Tina realizes that Brittany might be a lot more insecure about loving Santana than she ever remembers her to be. Brittany never seemed like the one who was afraid of being in love with her best friend. Out of the two, it just felt like Santana was the one who was desperately running.

Tina doesn't understand the dynamics of their relationship entirely, nobody does, but Santana did have a moment in time when she would actually talk about her feelings. It was during her first year at Columbia. That's when everybody though she was making so much progress and then, somewhere along the way, it fell through. Tina can only reference what she observed in high school and what Santana had told her about her relationship with Brittany. It wasn't much but it was good enough to draw conclusions.

"I think you are still the most important person to her, Britt," Tina admits.

"_But that's it. Right, of course."_

"No, no," Tina says immediately, "I didn't mean it that way. Listen, Quinn and I called you because we know that you guys have something. She listens to you. She trusts you. We thought that she needed someone like you to help her pull herself back together."

"_Right, I know. I'm sorry that I'm bringing my feelings into this."_

"No, no," Tina says again, this time chuckling, "Brittany, it's okay. You love her, that's okay."

"_I just miss her so much. I don't even…gosh, I can't even remember why I let her go."_

"She was leaving and you…" Tina explains, trying to be as considerate as she can with the next bit, "…and well, you were going to be in Lima. From what Santana told me, it was about long distance relationships and not wanting to go through with that kind of stress."

As Tina finishes her sentence, keys are heard behind the door and she looks up from the couch. Quinn walks in from having been at her night class and smiles, acknowledging Tina.

"_Yeah…well, I feel like I should have fought more or something. We didn't even try."_

"You agreed not to," Tina responds, giving her attention back to Brittany on the phone. Quinn walks over and plops herself down on the other end of the couch, sighing exhaustedly. She quirks an eyebrow at Tina and mouths 'who?'

"Sorry, Quinn just got home," Tina informs Brittany first before leaning forward and answering Quinn's silent question, "It's Brittany…"

"Hey Britt," Quinn says delightfully before deciding to get up and change out of her clothes.

"_Hi Quinn."_

"She says hi," Tina calls out just before Quinn enters her bedroom. She directs her attention back to Brittany on the phone, "She went to change. Anyways, are you okay?"

"_Yeah. I'm fine. I just miss her a lot more than I used to."_

"That's not a bad thing," she points out, "I'd be worried if you didn't miss her at all."

"_Hey hold on, my roommate's asking for me."_

"I didn't know you had a roommate?" Tina says pleasantly.

"_And you know him too. It's Sam."_

"What?" she responds in shock, "Sam as in Sam Evans?"

"_Yep..."_

"_Is that Tina? HI TINA!"_

"_What do you want?"_

"_I need toilet paper."_

"_Ugh, yeah there's a roll over there. Sorry, Tina…Sam's an idiot."_

"Oh my god," Tina says, laughing, "You and Sam? What?"

"_Yeah, we got really close after you all left."_

"Um," Tina chuckles nervously, "As in…"

"_We tried it, yeah, but it didn't work out. We knew we were better as best friends. It didn't hurt us at all actually. After we knew we weren't into each other that way, it sort of just brought us closer."_

"What's he doing in New York?" Tina asks curiously.

"_He's actually going to be working at Arkadium. He took a trip up here a few months ago for an interview and he got it."_

"Arkadium?" Tina repeats, "Must have something to do with gaming, I suppose."

"_He studied tech in Lima Community College and said it helped him find his passion to design video games."_

"_Are you talking about me?"_

"_Go away."_

"_Haha alright, I get it. Girl stuff. Bye,Tina!"_

"Bye, Sam!" Tina calls outeven though, unless she's on speakerphone, Brittany's going to end up having to repeat it to him anyway.

At that, Tina notices Quinn at the doorway of her bedroom. She's eyeing Tina strangely and eventually steps back out into the living room, positioning herself behind the couch. Tina swallows nervously because she had temporarily forgotten that Quinn was home and wasn't careful about whose name she was calling out.

"Sam?" Quinn says quietly, frown incredibly.

"Uh…" Tina hesitates before directing her voice to the phone again, "Alright, well I should go now. I've got to get up early to set up for an event. Hey? You should stop by. It's at Central Park."

"_It sounds fun. Maybe if I have time, I'll stop by."_

"Yay," Tina says happily, "I'll text you the details and all that jazz."

"_Alright, and thanks for the talk, Tina. Say bye to Quinn for me." _

"I will," she says and hangs up, slowly lifting to meet Quinn again. Tina smiles weakly, "You'll never guess who Brittany's roommate is."

"No," Quinn says in disbelief, "Sam and Brittany?"

"Not like that," Tina explains, "They're just best friends, Brittany still loves…"

Tina is interrupted by the sound of another set of keys picking at the lock. Both heads turn to watch Santana walk in. Tina checks the time on her phone to see that it's 10:15pm. Santana's normal shift is from 5 to 10 and she usually stays out all night, or at least until they've fallen asleep.

"You're home early?" Quinn comments, watching as Santana runs a hand through her hair.

"Didn't feel like staying out," she explains briefly as she pulls out a bottle of water from the fridge and reclaims the bag she just set down. She moves out of the kitchen and towards her bedroom, not seemingly interested in staying for a chat.

"You going to bed?" Tina asks.

"Yeah," Santana says, "Tired."

They're used to this kind of Santana; the short, unresponsive replies. This is how she's interacted with them for the past few months, since things have gone downhill with her. Still, they do notice something different, Tina does at least. Two nights in a row, Santana has come home early and she's talking. Tina doesn't want to get too excited but this is progress.

"Good luck with your event tomorrow," Santana says and Tina freezes momentarily before breaking into a smile. Santana plays with her fingers, "I heard you guys talking about it the other day, so yeah."

"Thanks, Santana," Tina says sweetly, "You can come. Quinn and I are on the committee so we'll both be there."

"Yeah, you should," Quinn adds, she herself slightly surprised by Santana's behavior.

"Nah," Santana says, waving them off, "I'd rather sleep."

Tina laughs, "We figured."

Santana presses her lips together into a flat smile, the best kind she can offer. She spends another second standing there before twisting on her heels, "Night, guys."

"Night, Santana," Tina responds.

"Night," Quinn says.

The door closes and the two girls left in the living room turn to each other. They share a knowing look before Tina huffs and stands up from the couch. They both need to get to bed to avoid looking like zombies at the welcome home barbeque for NYU students and faculty tomorrow.

Quinn and Tina start walking towards their rooms when they hear Santana's door open again. They turn and watch as she walks straight to the counter and spends a second looking for something. When her eyes find it, she reaches to pick up a sticky note that Quinn immediately knows is the one with Brittany's number on it. Santana turns back around with the piece of paper in her hand and disappears behind the door again.

Tina looks to Quinn, a brow furrowing in both confusion and curiosity.

"Brittany's number," Quinn hints and the two of them share another look, this time with small smiles on their faces as they return to their own rooms.

* * *

**A/N: Not much to say except, I think I let you down in the last chapter. I'm so sorry but yeah, here's the update with more Brittana interaction and juicy deets. Also, I had to have Brittany/Sam. They're so compatable as best friends and maybe we'll get to see jealous Santana hehe. That's always fun. Anyways, I hope you keep reading! :) Let me know your thoughts xx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Steps Don't Come Easy**

You synchronize the rhythm of your finger tapping against your phone case with the one of your pulse. Her number is displayed there, across the screen, and all you have to do is press call. You could hear her voice soon, the soft tone floating into your ear. You had the urge to talk to her on your way home and here you are now, sitting at the edge of the bed with a phone in one hand and the slip of paper in the other.

You confirm it again, reading over the numbers on both mediums to make sure they're copied correctly. This makes it the fifth time you've checked and it's starting to eat away at your dignity. You're not surprised, though, because Brittany has always been the best at melting the cold exterior of a person you pretend to be into the person you really are. And that's the important part; that she makes you _who you are_. Brittany doesn't turn you into someone else, someone different or better. Brittany digs deep enough to find what's already there and shines a bright light down on it. There's a crucial difference between someone who makes you change and someone who makes you _want_ to change.

A horn sings through the open window of your room, drawing your focus away from your thoughts and back towards reality. More specifically, back to the items in your hand. You stare hardly for the moment, eyeing the numbers once more as if you're expecting to bail.

"Fuck it," you huff, standing up after tossing the slip in the air. You press call, feeling your finger jolt with some type of electricity or energy.

The phone is pressed to your ear now, and you're listening to the rings as they come in even intervals. It takes a few goes—enough to make you start second guessing—and you begin to pace, retreating to the window and back to your bed and back to the window. Your free hand is at your side, tapping violently against your bare leg. You're thoughts are intertwining like a complex maze of ideas and questions and—what are you going to say?

Your eyes shoot open in sudden shock because you're completely unprepared and now it's too late to end the call. She picks up.

"_Hello?"_

With an escaping breath, your lips part unwillingly. Your voice is there, at the tip of your tongue, but you can't think of a word to say. Nothing adds up like your mind was wiped clean, blanked the moment you heard her voice.

"_Um…hello?"_

You throw something out there quickly and without thought, "Uhh…hi."

The pause that follows makes you irrationally nervous and uncomfortable. You know she knows it's you—or does she? Can she do that easily like you can for her? Identify your voice? Maybe she doesn't have you memorized like you do with her. Maybe she hasn't thought about you since the office.

"_Santana? Is that you?"_

Funny, how every little doubt that sprinted through your mind a moment ago is now destroyed. You reflect, in the short amount of time that you're allowed, and realize that she drives you crazy half the time. Sometimes you're so sure of her, like an expert, and sometimes you question whether you're entirely wrong about everything. You think she does it on purpose; fuels a battle in your own head.

"Uh, yeah," you say nervously, rolling your eyes at yourself because you sound so weak, "Sorry…Quinn had your number."

"_No, don't…don't be. I'm…glad you called."_

You could almost tell that she said the second half of that sentence through a growing smile. Her response settles several of your anxious nerves and you feel things start to calm down inside you. How does she do that without even trying?

"_Are you okay?" _

"Huh?" you said stupidly, cursing in your head moments later. Suddenly, she giggles and you notice how your heart catapults forward.

"_Well, there was an awful lot of blood the last time I saw you."_

"Oh! Right, yeah," the memory clicks and you pull together a more reasonable reply, "I'm fine. Thank you."

"_That's good. I was worried."_

"You were?" you ask impulsively since the thought crossed your mind. Shortly afterwards, you're eyes shut in embarrassment.

"_Of course. You seem surprised?"_

"No, I uh, I just," you struggle enough to realize you can't exactly deny her, "Um, I-I guess I am…"

"_Why?"_

She's not going to let you get out of this easily. Brittany has always been so considerate towards you, so caring, but she has also been someone who knows when to push you. She never throws you out into speeding traffic but she doesn't always let you stay tucked away in the comfort of her arms and hide away. She makes you move past your fears. She knows when you're being stubborn and tells you to quit it. Brittany may be the sweetest girl you've ever met but she puts you in your place.

You clear your throat, swallowing nervously, "I don't know…I guess, uh, you have more important things to think about. And, uh, I haven't exactly shown that much compassion."

"_I guess I've gotten used to it."_

Her voice softens and makes you melt a little more, but this time with the addition of a few stings. You know she didn't say that to make you feel bad yet you still do. Brittany happens to be the one person you simply can't stand to hurt. Although, that doesn't mean you are_ incapable _of hurting her, because remember; you've done that plenty of times. It's the afterwards part of it all that never changes, never goes away; the part where your insides feel crushed and your heart rages because being in your body is a disgrace. You can never be okay with hurting Brittany.

"_But for the record…"_

Her voice chimes back into your thoughts, interrupting your stream of consciousness. You listen carefully, pressing the phone closer to your ear so that you don't miss any word, any pause, any hitch in her breath.

"_You're just as important, if anything the most."_

She starts a flutter in your stomach; the nervous kind, like the ones you would expect to get before hopping on a roller coaster. The best part about it is; Brittany has been giving you the same feeling, this flutter, since you were kids and she grabbed your hand for the first time to take you out back to show you the tree house her dad built her. You remember that day so easily, like it's an image captured in a frame on your nightstand. This isn't new. No, definitely not; you've felt this before.

"Still?" you say with a quivery voice.

"_Always." _

You breathe out as steadily as possible—which, knowing you, isn't very steady at all—and slowly walk towards the window again. On your way, you pull the chair away from the desk and place it so you can sit by the window. You don't have much to say—or you do but you don't know how to say it—so you pull your knees up and wrap your free hand around them, waiting.

"_I've missed you."_

You miss her too. God, you miss her so much. The speeding of your passionately shattered heart proves that.

"_Santana?"_

"Yeah, I'm here…" you quickly say, allowing a short pause before saying the next few words, "I've missed you too."

You hear her sigh in what seems like relief. You wonder whether she was holding her breath until you answered, until you said it back to her. You wonder what she would do if you hadn't, if she'd keeping holding on, waiting forever until you told her. You think she might have. You think Brittany would have waited.

"I'm sorry," you tell her, finally.

"_For?"_

"Everything…but mainly the past few days," you explain, eyes shifting to stare out the window and admire how this entire city comes alive at night, "I've been a jerk."

"_No…I…it's…you haven't, really. I mean, nobody told you I was coming." _

"That doesn't matter," you sigh, "I was a bitch."

"_Maybe you weren't particularly pleased but…you're not a bitch, Santana." _

You smile weakly to yourself when she tells you that. She used to remind you all the time in high school. She acknowledged that you could be mean but she never let you call yourself a bitch. You think one of the greatest things about Brittany is that she wasn't the kind of person who only saw the best in you. Because that can be dangerous, always seeing what is good. Sometimes we entrench ourselves so deeply in the positive that we neglect the bad and become blind to reality. Suddenly, all we see is what we want to see. Brittany didn't let that happen with you. She saw the best in you but she wasn't oblivious. She knew you made mistakes and she knew you had your moments. She knew that if she put you on a pedestal then you would grow to be selfish and narcissistic, more so than you already were. What she did was invaluable to you as a person, something you don't think you can ever repay her for. Brittany made you human.

You sigh heavily, "You don't have to defend my behavior."

"_I'm not defending you. I'm just reminding you what you already know."_

Another half smile grows on your lips and you finally break away from the scenery to look down at your feet on the chair. There's one light in your room, from the lamp on your bedside, and it gives a warm tint. You like this moment you're in right now; talking to Brittany in a pretty glow with a comfy sweater on and your legs tucked at your chest. The only way this could get better is if she was actually here. If instead of a phone against your ear, it was her chest or her lips or anything of hers.

"_Santana?"_

"Mhmm," you hum, reminding yourself that you have to keep listening and stop drifting off into your thoughts.

"_Uh…I'm sorry if coming here made things worse for you." _

"What?" you say through a knotted brow.

"_I never wanted to upset you."_

Upset you? Sure you were shocked and confused and maybe a little angry about finding her in your apartment after two years of nothing but she couldn't possibly think you'd rather she leave, could she?

"_I know you've built another life here and I don't really have a place in it so I just wanted to make sure that I wasn't bothering—"_

"Brittany," you interrupt and take a pause to gather your words at the tip of your tongue, "You…y-you're never going to be what makes things worse. Y-you should know that."

"_I didn't know whether things were still the same."_

"They aren't," you contradict and let out a complicated sigh.

"_O-okay."_

You can hear the confusion in her voice so you fumble together an explanation, "I mean…_you _are b-but the rest isn't. I mean…uhh..."

"_Talk to me, Santana. It's just me."_

"I-I can't just talk to you, Brittany," you tell her, admitting to the fact that interacting with her again is proving to be something rather difficult. You can't just jump straight back into her again, not without stumbling a few times on the way.

"_Why not?"_

You sigh heavily, "You know why."

"_Then we'll take it step by step."_

It sounds unrealistic but you think the jolt in your chest was your heart jumping in agreement with her suggestion. The idea is appealing because it means she'll be around. She's offering not to go anywhere, not to disappear on you, and you think that might be what you need right now. Not Puck's support, not Quinn's support, not Tina's support but Brittany's support. After all, hers was always the most effective on you.

There's one thing that bothers you, though, and it happens to be an intimidating factor. Letting Brittany in again means you'll have to talk to her about the past year and what you've been doing. Even if you don't initiate the conversation, she'll find out soon enough that you're hiding something and then you'll have to tell her. You can't keep this part of you from her but you just don't know if you could bear her finding out what you do.

"_Okay?"_

You swallow nervously, "I don't want you to put you through that."

"_Through what?"_

"Uh," you struggle, "A-A lot has changed since we last talked."

"_I've got time."_

You breathe in deeply, absorbing her reply as it comes through. You're a little at loss for words right now because you haven't given her hope, or a reason to stay, yet she's willing. The two of you ended on a mutual agreement, yes, but there was almost this unspoken truth between you; that you both_ knew_ it was the right decision but neither of you _believed _it was. There's a difference, you know, between believing and knowing. Sometimes people forget that and assume that one implies the other. That if we know something then we must believe it. But look at writers. They know that wizards don't exist and humans can't fly but that doesn't mean they have to believe they can't.

"_Unless…I…y-you don't have to tell me anything, if you don't want to. I'm not making—"_

"Brittany," you sigh, interjecting again, "You know it's not that."

"_I just want to make sure. I really don't want to put you in an uncomfortable position. I'm not here to do that."_

"Okay," you acknowledge, "Then what are you here for exactly?"

She takes a deserved pause while you wait. You aren't sure what she's going to say to you and the uncertainty builds a nest of nerves in your stomach. They quiver and bubble and flutter at the same time, quickening as the silence draws out longer. You don't even know if there's something you want her to say, like maybe she's here for you.

When her throat clears, you suck in a breath and try to keep no expectations.

"_I don't think I'm supposed to be somewhere that you aren't." _

You feel lightheaded, or delusional, like maybe you heard incorrectly. Your breaths speed temporarily because you need some more air in you, something to stabilize the reactions.

"_I know it sounds…s-stupid…"_

"I-It's not stupid," you say impulsively because you can't let her use that word. If there's one thing you'll always do, it's protecting her from that label.

"_I-I just want to be here for you. Is that okay?"_

You need her. Maybe you don't realize how much just yet but you know that what the ache inside you craves is her. Maybe she could help you. Why are you even questioning it? You keep making these comparisons and they keep reminding you of how different Brittany is to everybody else. Like you know Quinn can help you and Tina can too but there's only so much they can do. Maybe they build the steps for you; maybe they find you a ladder, but Brittany? She'll be the one to make you climb.

"Yeah," you say quietly in a voice so small and whispery, feeling a refreshing breath travel through your system, "It's okay."

* * *

The reminder on her phone times off, throwing out an annoying tune from the kitchen counter. Tina scurries over from the fridge to shut it off before it reaches the next level of volume—since it's one of those alarms that ascends the longer it plays for. She reads over the memo—"Banners for BBQ"—and turns it off knowing that her signs for the event are leaning against the wall over there, ready for her to pick up and go.

It's 8:30am and she's running a little late because Quinn is still trying to get ready. Tina is surprised considering Quinn is always the first one to get up and out and she'd think that on a day where they actually _have _to be somewhere, she'd be more punctual. Apparently she isn't as consistent as Tina thought.

A door opens as Tina's head ducks into the freezer to pull out a water bottle. Thinking Quinn finished and is now ready to leave; she turns around and walks to her phone only to find a seemingly well rested Santana making her way towards the kitchen.

"Santana?" Tina says in surprise.

"Mmhm," she hums, "Not too loud."

Tina chuckles, attempting to twist open the cap of the water bottle, "What are doing up?"

"I have no idea," she says, shaking her head. Santana takes a seat in the stool at the counter and leans her chin on the palm of her propped up hand.

"Did you sleep well?" Tina asks again despite knowing it's risky to be asking so many questions at this early—for Santana—hour.

"I guess," Santana replies vaguely, still dragging a little in the sleepy state of mind. She _is _well rested, though, for the first time in a long time. Santana knows it's because of Brittany, because somehow, it was easier to fall asleep after listening to her voice.

Tina fixes her friend a cup of coffee, setting it down in front of Santana and watching the small smile of appreciation form on her face. She's always loved seeing Santana smile, everyone does. It's a rare occasion now and nobody would mind it becoming something more regular. There's no doubt that Santana's smile is one of the best. Quinn agrees, Tina agrees, even Puck thinks so. There's something about her when she's happy that lightens everybody's day. Maybe it's because when it's genuine and sincere, her smile, it's the most beautiful view. They all needed that in their lives again and Quinn and Tina knew what it would take.

"Thanks," she says timidly before wrapping the flats of her hands around the outside of the mug. The warmth spreads and makes the hairs on her arm stand. Santana brings the coffee to her lips, blowing the scalding liquid.

Another door opens and footsteps grow louder as a rushed Quinn hurries out, eyes buried into her purse to check for her keys, "I still can't believe Brittany's bunking up with Sam, it doesn't make sen…s…"

Her words trail off the moment she looks up and notices Santana at the counter, frozen with the mug at her mouth. Santana holds a breath and slowly lowers the coffee back to the counter. Quinn's eyes shoot open, a deer in headlights, and leaves her mouthing hanging ajar, speechless. Tina's eyes squint and look at Santana cautiously, hoping this doesn't have to boil into something.

"Uh…crap," Quinn mutters discretely under her breath before gradually approaching the counter, "Santana…you're up early?"

Santana presses her lips together momentarily and pushes the coffee away. Tina eyes her movements carefully, occasionally shifting to glare at Quinn for being so reckless. Santana stares at the counter for a while, giving the other two time to share a quick, mute, conversation.

"What the hell?" Tina mouths without sound.

Quinn shrugs defensively and does the same, silently mouthing, "I didn't know?"

"I can see you guys," Santana says, scrunching her face in irritation.

"Uh…well…did Brittany not mention it?" Tina says, trying to neutralize the tension. Santana lifts up and glances between the two. She doesn't look particularly upset but she definitely doesn't appear thrilled. Maybe that will change soon once she's allowed time to process the news.

"They're roommates," Quinn explains, "But that's it…apparently."

"Quinn," Tina scolds before reassuring Santana, "They're just roommates."

"Why are you telling me this?" Santana says irately.

"Um," Tina hesitates, "Well since Quinn brought it up, I just…thought I'd fill in the blanks."

"Well I never asked," she spits and there it is; the change. Santana stands up from the stool, stealing the mug of coffee with her as she waves her free hand rudely, "Don't you guys have to be somewhere..."

Quinn blinks hardly before sighing at her mistake. She didn't realize Santana would be there when she walked out. The girl usually shows her face after noon and Quinn had no reason to think today would be any different than the past few months.

Tina clears her throat, "Yeah, we're running late. Don't be mad at Brittany okay?"

"Who says I'm even talking to her?" Santana snaps, turning around and retreating back to the comfort of her bedroom. When the door shuts, Tina turns to Quinn and shakes her head. Quinn throws her hands up in defense, watching her friend pass by and pick up the banners by the wall.

"How was I supposed to know she'd be out here?" Quinn exclaims.

"Why would that be the first thing you say?" Tina says, lightly slapping Quinn's arm and secretly rejoicing the wince that she makes afterwards.

"Ow," Quinn whines, rubbing the spot on her arm, "Calm down, she didn't take it _that _badly."

"It's Santana," Tina explains, "She either actually doesn't care at all or she cares too much so she's pretending she doesn't. And she always cares when it comes to Brittany."

"I'm sorry," Quinn says, following Tina as they start to leave the apartment, "I just don't get it. Brittany and Sam?"

"They're friends?" Tina says, stepping aside to let Quinn by before shutting the door and locking it, "What's so hard to understand?"

"Brittany and Sam, Tina," Quinn repeats as they walk down the hallway carrying supplies for the event, "I just never saw it coming."

"Well, I guess because you and Santana left," Tina attempts to explain, "The three of us got close during our senior year—well, Brittany's second senior year—so it doesn't surprise me too much. I didn't know they'd end up dating though."

"What?!" Quinn snaps, stopping completely at the bottom of the steps.

"Oh don't be so dramatic, Q" Tina says frustratingly as she turns around and pushes the door open with her back, stepping out into the street while Quinn follows eventually.

"I knew it! I knew they weren't just roommates!" Quinn says exaggeratingly. Tina rolls her eyes as she walks to the curb and flags for a cab.

"No, ugh," she objects, "Used to. Past tense. They aren't together now."

A cab pulls up and Tina slides in, watching as a confused Quinn follows her lead. She quickly tells the directions to the driver and sets down the banners in the foot area, huffing in relief.

"Okay, wait…so they used to date but now they don't but they live together?" Quinn tries to clarify for herself.

"Yes," Tina sighs like the past few minutes have been the most exhausting she's ever experienced. There's a pause of thought, for Quinn, and Tina knows that she hasn't heard the end of it yet. She simply waits, praying that they'll arrive at Central Park sooner than she thinks.

"I don't see how they can do that without having some kind of…you know," Quinn adds.

Tina chooses her words carefully and explains, "She's not falling for Sam or anybody else anytime soon, Quinn."

"Did she tell you that?" Quinn asks suspiciously.

"What's this about?" Tina retorts, "Why are you so worked up about this all of a sudden? Sam? Is that why?"

"What? No," Quinn denies, "I haven't seen or talked to Sam since I visited last summer."

"Look this is about Brittany and Santana," Tina reminds her, "You let it slip and you better hope it won't mess things up between them. I think they were actually starting to work things out."

Quinn remains silent, sulking in her guilt. It wasn't necessarily her fault because it was an accident and she hadn't intended on telling Santana but still, they would have been better off if it had never happened. Plus, neither of them knows whether Brittany had chosen specifically not to tell Santana about it. She could have had her own plan, her own specialized way of informing Santana and for all they know, Quinn just ruined it.

"Really?" Quinn wonders curiously, "They were?"

"I think so," Tina admits, referring to the moment Brittany talked about in their phone call. Quinn hadn't heard that part exactly so she doesn't know. Tina never recalled Brittany requesting it to stay a secret so she figures talking about it wouldn't be so horrible, "They had a moment."

Quinn's head snaps towards Tina, "What is with the news today? Give me the details."

"A kiss on the forehead," Tina says theatrically, capturing a certain romantic aura that she could only imagine was lingering between her two other friends at the time, "I actually don't know much, that's all Brittany told me."

Quinn sinks back into the seat of the cab, huffing in surprise, "Already?"

"Yeah I know right? I thought it'd be a little longer till San let her that close," Tina adds. Then again, she reminds herself about Brittany and Santana and their relationship. It always seemed so urgent, like the two couldn't last long without each other. Tina thinks that's the reason for Santana's misfortune in the past year. Maybe it's been too long without Brittany.

"Wait, when did this happen? She's only found out about Britt three days ago," Quinn asks.

"Uhh…well today is Saturday so Thursday night," Tina explains, "Apparently, she ran into her on the street. Oh no, wait, Santana had a nosebleed so Britt took her somewhere to help."

"What?" Quinn says worriedly.

"Yeah, Britt said it shouldn't be something to worry about but I don't really get it," Tina explains, "A nosebleed? That's so random."

"That's worrying," Quinn comments, "It's never happened before. Wait…no, there was that time in high school when she tried to beat up Lauren."

"Hah," Tina chuckles, "What an idiot taking on a girl twice her size."

"Seriously," Quinn adds, shaking her head, "Hey wasn't that around the time…?"

"Yeah," Tina fills in quickly, "It was."

The cab fills with silence as the two girls refresh their memories. They think about Santana, about how she had to do it on her own. She didn't have Brittany because what was killing her was all about Brittany; how she loved her, how she wanted to be with her.

"I wish we were there for her," Quinn says regretfully, "She must have been so…"

"Terrified?" Tina finishes, watching Quinn's lips press together in agreement, "Yeah, I know."

"I finally realized something was wrong when she sang, uh what's the song…" Quinn recalls sloppily, snapping her fingers, "…you know the…the one about…"

"Landslide?" Tina wonders out loud.

"That one," Quinn says, nodding, "Yeah…I think it was the first time I really saw Santana cry."

"What are you talking about?" Tina says unbelievably, "She's the hysterical drunk. She cries all the time."

Quinn chuckles lightly, "No but…you could tell she was crying for a real reason."

"I still can't believe she picked that song for Britt," Tina says, sighing sweetly, "It was just so…meaningful."

"She's probably got the biggest heart," Quinn admits, "Out of all of us, ironically so."

"Yeah," Tina agrees before branching off completely, "Hey maybe its stress?"

"What?"

"The nosebleed," Tina explains further, "I read somewhere that stress can cause nosebleeds."

"Hmm…" Quinn hums, her brow knotting in thought.

"Then again," Tina chimes in, "Brittany did say some dude walked straight into her so maybe that was it."

"I think she's alright," Quinn says, turning to look at the scenery passing by through the window, "We'll just keep a closer eye on her until it seems clear."

"Yeah," Tina joins, "She's probably fine."

* * *

"Tina!" Brittany calls out with a hand waving in the air. When Tina looks up from the station she's situated at, she grins widely and gestures for her friend to come over.

In the short time that Brittany takes to walk, Tina nudges Quinn who is rummaging through a box with her back faced away. Quinn jolts up and tries not to break her frown with an impulsive giggle because Tina hit a ticklish spot.

"What?!" Quinn complains.

"Britt's here," Tina explains, "You need to tell her that Santana knows."

"Shit," Quinn mutters under her breath and tosses the stack of paper cups in her hand back into the box. She wipes her hands on her jeans and makes direct contact with Brittany when she finally arrives at their set up table.

"Hey Quinn," Brittany says sweetly, "Aw you guys are working so hard. I don't want to distract you."

"No, it's fine," Tina says before leaning in, "I think we deserve a break."

Brittany giggles, "Well I can't stay for long. I've got a bunch of classes lined up today. It's my first teaching day."

"Wow that's amazing, Britt!" Tina says happily, kicking Quinn again for being so unusually quiet. She didn't realize Quinn was this nervous under pressure. Tina thinks Quinn might chicken out right now which is surprising because after _everything _that girl has been through, the last thing anyone would think of her as is a wimp.

"Yeah, I'm really excited," Brittany adds before noticing Quinn's silent manner, "Are you okay, Quinn?"

"Uh," Quinn hesitates and looks over to Tina and then down to her hands, "Britt…I think I might have um…well, let something slip."

Brittany's brow knots in worry, confused as to what Quinn could be referring to. Her smile falters and she shifts her weight to one side, head tilting in worry, "What do you mean?"

Quinn squints cautiously, lacing her fingers together as she continues, "I told Santana that you and Sam are living together."

Her eyes widen momentarily at Quinn before she turns to look at Tina. Brittany's lips part, "Uh…okay. H-How did she take it?"

Quinn and Tina turn to each other and share a look before Tina shrugs unsurely, "We're not really sure."

"How can you not be sure?" Brittany asks, slightly worried but not seemingly too upset about Quinn revealing that detail. She hardly gets mad, and the other two know that, but still, they never want to ruin anything that Brittany had planned.

"Well she sort of just…left the room," Tina confesses.

Brittany sighs, running an anxious hand through her long blonde hair, "Crap…"

"I'm sorry, Britt," Quinn apologizes, "I was talking about it when I walked into the kitchen and I didn't realize she was there too."

"No, no," Brittany says through a weak smile and waving hand, "It's fine. Don't worry, but uh…where is she right now?"

"At home?" Quinn suggests before looking to Tina for reassurance.

"Yeah, I would think so," Tina adds, "She didn't seem too eager to go anywhere when we left."

"Okay, um…" Brittany starts to say before shuffling through her handbag and pulling out her phone, "Listen…If you guys wouldn't mind, I think I should go over and…maybe talk to her about it before my classes this afternoon."

"Of course, yeah," Tina says willingly, "I think that's a good idea."

"Yeah, knowing Santana she'd probably take it better if it had come from you," Quinn says, still feeling a little guilty but more at peace since Brittany didn't seem to upset.

"Alright, I'll see you guys later," Brittany says, walking backwards.

"Sorry again," Quinn repeats.

"No worries," Brittany replies with a warm enough smile to make the two of them feel more relieved.

* * *

The smoke travels a little too deep on this puff, sinking straight into your lungs as you wince. The apartment complex prohibits smoking but you figure that no one is going to notice or care if you blow it out the window. You usually follow rules and do it outside or on the rooftop but you couldn't be bothered to leave the apartment this time. There's too much on your mind to be seeing other people.

You don't know how you feel about it but it's not positive, that's for sure. Brittany with anybody else already makes your chest pressurize but you think its worse that you know the other guy. She didn't mention anything about being in a relationship. Then again, she didn't say she was single either. The worst part is knowing that this isn't your place to be angry. You gave up that right when you left her in Lima.

Still, you're upset. It's picking at your confidence, your dignity, like a vulture at a dead corpse. You hate how she can crawl under your skin so easily, without even being in the same room as you. But you fear the day, if it ever comes, when she stops trying and you stop feeling that effect. As vulnerable as it makes you feel sometimes, it's the nature of your relationship with her. She was always the one who knew how to sneak past whatever barrier you built and you want her to keep being the only one.

With the flick of a wrist, the built up ash at the end of your cigarette drops down to the street. You watch it fall until it disappears somewhere along the way. You take one last inhale of smoke and hold it in, throwing the bud out the window.

You let out the breath of smoke as you pull back into the apartment and push down the screen. The room falls quiet, separated from the life of the city. Suddenly you feel cold, a line of goose bumps hovering over your forearms. The air was cool outside—after all November is approaching—but you don't believe that was the cause. In fact, you think you know exactly what makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand and it's that thought again; the thought of Brittany sharing what she used to share with you with someone else. You know you don't deserve to be upset, especially considering what you've done in the last few days with a girl of your own.

God, it makes you sick. _You _make yourself sick.

As you walk towards the bed, you hear the buzzer from the living room sound. Your head turns, brow furrowing in confusion. You try to remember if you ordered anything, like Chinese, and forgot about it but nothing clicks. You'd rather not answer it and you wouldn't have if you had already been lying down, but since you're up…

The apartment stays relatively silent as you walk through it, only the small tapping of your bare feet on the hardwood floors. You press the button and lean in, "Yeah?"

"Hey," a familiar voice says into the speaker, "It's me…I mean, Brittany. C-Can I come up?"

You swallow nervously, straightening up in your position, "Uh…hi, yeah…sure."

You let her in and slowly step away from the speaker, confused. The speed increases in your chest immediately, like your body can detect what's coming and knows that it needs to start beating faster now. You actually love how it manages to do that every time like a default setting.

Your morning appearance wasn't such a big deal until you looked down and realized all you were wearing were sweats and tank top. The speed you go at now is shocking, sprinting from your position by the front door all the way back to your bedroom. You pull your hair out of the ponytail and ruffle it lightly, going through it a few times with your fingers. You take off your shirt, put on a bra, and then slide it back over your head again just in time to hear several knocks on the door. In the last second, you reach for the mouth spray on your desk and squirt a few puffs to lose the smell of smoke.

Since you've been moving so quickly, you pause in front of the door to take a breath. Plus, it's never a bad idea to allow a small moment to calm yourself down before you're about to see Brittany. Sometimes, you forget to do that and when you meet she ends up stealing the air right from your lungs.

You twist the knob and open the door, finding her on the other end looking more than beautiful. She peers up at you with her head lowered and a warm smile growing across her lips. Your heart dances a little, like one of those giddy hops people do after hearing good news.

"Hi," she says softly and it melts you immediately. You don't think that will ever go away.

"Hi," you reply, shaking from your thoughts and stepping aside to let her in. Technically, this is the first time she's been here without you stumbling upon her presence unknowingly. Although, you don't think it would be so bad to come home every day and find her here, reading a book on the couch or making something for dinner.

"You look…" she starts but lets her smile turn into a giggle, "…sleepy."

The warmth growing on your cheeks tells you that you're blushing, "Uhh…heh."

"It's cute," Brittany adds with a scrunched face as she makes her way inside. You press your lips into a quiet smile and walk forwards to close the door. With your back faced away from her, you shut your eyes and curse under your breath for being so flushed already.

"Sorry this is a little unexpected," she says as you're turning around.

You shake your head softly, "It's fine."

"I _do _want to talk to you about something, though," Brittany confesses.

"Okay," you reply, hinting what it could be in your thoughts. Could Quinn and Tina have told her about this morning already? You try not to preoccupy yourself too much yet but it's difficult, "Do you want something to drink?"

"I'd love some water," she requests and you nod, making your way past her and into the kitchen. Brittany takes a seat in the stool on the other side of the counter, waiting until you're ready to talk. You rummage through the fridge and find a water bottle. You set it down in front of her once you've made your way back. You're opposite each other now, on either sides of the counter.

"Thanks," she says sweetly and you press your lips together as a response, avoiding direct eye contact, "Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" you hum obliviously, forcing yourself to look at her. She tilts her head to the side while she twists the cap off the bottle in her hand.

"You seem a little…preoccupied," she comments before taking a sip of water, eyes staying on you. Damn, you were specifically trying _not _to come off as worried yet somehow, you managed to emphasize it like it was written across your forehead.

"What? Oh, I-I'm fine," you blurt out hoping it's doesn't heighten the blatancy of your current state. Silence lingers briefly, filling the spaces between her voice and yours.

"I'm not dating him…Santana," she reveals quietly after some time and your head snaps up, eyes meeting roughly but intimately. Brittany peers at you kindly, and gently, and all the ways you want to be looked at. She knows just what you want right now—reassurance, comfort—and she's giving it to you despite you never asking. She just knows.

"H-How did you—"

"Quinn told me she accidentally let it slip," Brittany reveals. You glance away from her, huffing out a heavy breath.

"I know I should have told you. But Sam?" she says and shakes her head, "We're not together, okay?"

You press your lips into a tight line and blink nervously. How did she know that was the part, them being together, that you've been thinking about for the past few hours since Quinn and Tina left? Sometimes, you wonder whether she can actually read your mind. Or maybe she has a part of you inside her, like a piece of your body and soul that keeps her in touch with you all the time. Maybe she's grown up with you and memorized all the ways you think, all the paths you take in your thoughts.

It scares you, even after all this time. Think about it, there's someone out there who might know you better than you do. Scratch that, who _does_ know you better than you do. Everyone likes to think that they're the masters of their own body, their own life, but that isn't always the case. Sometimes, not everybody is their own expert. You certainly aren't and that frightens you.

"Uh…I-I wasn't, um," you struggle as you make your way out the kitchen and over to the living room. You start picking up magazines that were left on the table as if you actually make an effort to clean this apartment when really you haven't picked up a duster in years.

You're blank out for the moment, stacking up the papers and books into the curve of your arm. You don't know whether she said anything back to you. When you straighten up again and huff, turning with your eyes glued to the items in your hand, you realize she hasn't moved from her position. You lift up and notice that she has turned around, though, and is now facing you from that stool. You look down at the magazines and swallow nervously, slowly walking towards the shelf just outside your bedroom door.

Before you get there, as you walk by her, she stands up and reaches out for you. Her hand stops you from moving forward, gripping your forearm. You feel the skin tingle where she touches you and hope that she doesn't feel the strength of your reaction. You don't want her to know what she's doing to you, what she's been doing to you, not yet. The rest of her body follows, shifting closer and applying gentle pressure to make you turn back and face her.

"Do you understand that?" she asks in a voice just above a whisper. Finally, your bodies are facing each other and she has that height advantage again. The items in your hand feel heavier the longer you stay in her presence.

She tilts low enough to draw your head back up, "I'm not…with anyone."

You find the familiarity of those eyes, blue like the sky. The reactions inside you speed up and it feels like the blood is rushing through your veins too fast. There's pressure everywhere and a little too much of it that you start to feel fragile, like something is going to break soon. You forget what she was talking about because it's hard to focus on much else when you're looking at her. And when her lips curve a little and her face softens, you're ability to think disappears entirely, like you never learned how to in the first place. This has happened before, you think, but a long time ago when you fell in love with her for the first time. It was so new and different and sometimes things would move too fast. That's what it feels like now, too fast, you're trembling.

She steps forward and it sends your heart racing again. You want to stop her because the rate of your heartbeat is pushing too violently against the walls of your chest. You want to slow her down but your mind is a pile of mush, incapable of controlling much besides the basics.

When Brittany takes one more step closer, you suddenly lose feeling in your arms and let the magazines fall to the floor. The drop emits a loud crack and finally snaps you out of the trance, firing you with enough energy to do something. You suck in a sudden breath and she notices the way your expression breaks. She stops, freezes briefly, and then her eyes widen and she pulls away.

"Santana, I-I'm sorry," she says worriedly, "I didn't…I wasn't trying to…"

"Uhh…" you mumble, dropping down quickly to the floor to pick up the magazines. She joins you seconds later, gathering the mess and stacking them back into a pile. When you're done, you both stand up again and she offers to take them from you. She doesn't really let you object, though, because she grabs them and places them onto the counter beside you.

"Sorry," you say under your breath, a hand coming up to rub at your temple in embarrassment.

She shakes her head kindly with a timid smile, "Don't be, I…I was getting a little ahead of myself."

"No…" you say seriously and her grin falters, "Brittany…I…it's not that I don't…uh…"

Her head tilts to the side, waiting patiently until you you're ready to say what you want to say. You like how she doesn't make you feel rushed anymore. You appreciate that she stopped the moment she realized you were scared. She's the same Brittany and that makes it all okay to say this to her.

"Y-you said we could take it…step by step," you remind her, "…and that..."

"…was a little too many steps, I know," Brittany finishes, bowing her head. She nods to herself, "I'm sorry."

She looks a little broken and it kills you that you have to put her through this all over again. She spent so long waiting for you the first time. How are you supposed to make her wait again? Maybe this wasn't the best idea, letting her back into you. Maybe you needed to think it over for longer. You don't want to hurt Brittany and you certainly don't want to drag out the pain in the time that she has to wait only to realize she might be disappointed again. You can't guarantee anything right now. You can't guarantee you'll get better.

"Brittany," you say in a shaky voice that makes her peer up at you worriedly, "Maybe…maybe this wasn't a good idea."

"What do you mean?" she asks fearfully. You sigh, shifting around to lean against the counter and she turns so that you're still facing each other.

"I-I don't want to…" you start but feel the thickness of the next word drag across your tongue, "…hurt you."

She breathes out, her brow lifting up sympathetically. You feel a shift inside you occur, like maybe you just took a step forward in the right direction. As if telling her this, what you're feeling, was the first part of this whole process. It feels good to admit the truth, so much better than you thought it would be.

Brittany hesitates briefly in front of you, only because she doesn't want to scare you again. When you press your lips together, hinting that you're not as shaky as you were before, she knows its okay to come forward. She walks the remaining distance to you and slides her hands through your arms, pulling you into a hug. You can't help but feel a little more complete for the time being, like she just found a piece of your puzzle and made it fit. If she can keep doing that, you might be okay. Until then, so for now, you just let her hold you. That's the first step after all.

* * *

**A/N: Hey! So I hope you enjoyed the update and all the Brittana in it. I think the pace is fitting, I hope it is for you too. I mean, it's Brittany and Santana and two years apart isn't _that _long. Especially with a love like theirs, it's very likely they're still crazy about each other. Anyways, yes, let me know your thoughts and thank you, as always, for reading! :) LOVE YOU xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Round It Up (Let's Start The Fire)**

_"Haha can you believe it, Lopez?" he laughed, throwing a hand around Santana's shoulder, "We graduated!"_

_Santana smiled weakly, feeling Puck's arm weighing her body down like a sudden increase in gravitational force, pulling her closer to the ground. She was supposed to be having fun, dancing and drinking and going wild with her best friends. They graduated. The chance to finally break free from the torment of McKinley High was theirs._

_"What's with the face?" Puck asked, still wrestling her with his arm as they walked down the hallway._

_"I'm not making a face?" she frowned, attempting to convince Puck that nothing was bothering her._

_He stared flatly, unfazed by Santana's lack of persuading ability, "You're making a face."_

_"Wha-no whatever, have you seen Brittany?" Santana asked, returning to the reason she was wandering the halls in the first place, "I came back from the bathroom and she was gone."_

_Her eyes peeked into the open bedroom as they passed by, sighing when it checked in as empty. The party was in Rachel's den, where everybody was proceeding to drink the night away. Everybody except Brittany; and Santana was trying to figure out why her girlfriend had suddenly gone missing._

_"Nope, your girl's been AWOL," he said, finally letting go of Santana and slowing down once they reached the bathroom, "Maybe she's getting her mack on with a dude."_

_The comment earned him a harsh glare from Santana, "Shut the fuck up, Puckerman."_

_"I'm just messing around?! Loosen up a little, Lopez. We graduated!" he laughed again, throwing a triumphant fist in the air before turning around._

_"Where are you going?" Santana asked, frowning incredibly._

_"Gotta take a piss," he answered and opened the door to the bathroom Santana had been in a few moments ago, "Check the kitchen, maybe she went to get more drinks."_

_Santana continued on her path down the hallway, ducking her head into a few more rooms but each time finding it a disappointment. She was growing worried about Brittany's disappearance from the scene. __Santana decided to take Puck's advice and headed to the kitchen, hoping he was right and that she would find Brittany fixing herself or somebody else another drink. When she got there, though, she was confronted with another let down because instead of Brittany, she found Rachel._

"_Oh Santana, hey, Santana," Rachel slurred out, stumbling around the counter when she saw Santana by the door, "This drink is amaaazing! Try it!"_

"_Uhh you go ahead," Santana said, rejecting the offer with an annoyed frown. Rachel shrugged casually and took another sip from the glass, giggling once she felt it slide down into her belly._

"_Mhmm, lemme tell you something, I wanna say something…" Rachel said sloppily, looping her arm into Santana's and dragging her out the door, "I think…you're awesome. We should…totally…like be friends. I mean, we're both…gonna go to New York…and with my voice and your voice we'd be like…divas for life, right?"_

"_Okay," Santana objected, having had enough of Rachel's drunken presence drooling on her shoulder, "You're drunk."_

"_YES!" Rachel agreed immediately, lifting a finger up at Santana, "I am…what one might call…inebri…uninebria…wait…"_

"_You're drunk, Berry, let's keep it simple," Santana finished, rolling her eyes._

_She grabbed hold of Rachel's arm and led her back into the den. The laughter and chatter from all her other friends became noticeable as she walked Rachel in, but the only voice she wanted to hear was still absent. She scanned the room, losing focus on Rachel who was wiggling her way out of Santana's grip._

"_Hey, Rachel!," Santana called out just before the girl got too far._

_She swung around dizzily, "Mhmm?"_

"_Have you seen Brittany?" Santana asked again, feeling worry churn in her stomach._

"_I just…can I say something? I just wanna say…that I'm happy…for you and Brittany…you guys are so cute…so cute…" Rachel confessed and Santana couldn't help but smile softly to herself at the comment. _

"…_so cute…like me and Finn… wait…Finn and I…" she continued, correcting herself in that annoying habit of hers. _

_The grin wiped from Santana's face completely, "Compare Britt and I to you and Frankenteen one more time and I'll break your nose and both your legs so your big Broadway dreams can stay dreams."_

_Finding her no help whatsoever, Santana huffed and turned back around to keep looking. She took the other direction down the hallway and passed the door to the back porch. Just before entering another room, she caught a glimpse of someone outside the window. She paused and regained the steps, closing in on the figure. The faded tint of blonde hair was enough to identify it was Brittany and Santana sighed in relief._

_She opened the door and stepped out onto the back porch, leaning against the frame, "Hey you."_

_Brittany turned around and straightened up from leaning on the rail. She smiled softly and if they hadn't been outside, away from a party, but somewhere quiet like their bedroom, Santana would have felt her heart start pounding passionately in that amazing way it always did around Brittany. But something didn't seem quite right and instead of a good kind of flutter, Santana felt a rush of worry spread through her. _

_"I've been looking for you," Santana said, lifting a foot out in front of her slowly as she made her way to her girlfriend._

"_Sorry," Brittany apologized with an adorable chuckle, "I just wanted some fresh air."_

"_Why are you out here, babe?" Santana asked, finally reaching Brittany._

"_Just thinking," Brittany responds, turning around to let Santana hug her from behind._

"_About?" Santana asked again, wrapping her arms around Brittany's stomach and resting her chin on her girlfriend's shoulder__—_which she could do because she was wearing high heels. Brittany's hands stroked Santana's at her belly as she leaned back into her girlfriend's body, eyes closing serenely.

_Santana would have stayed there forever if she couldn't feel Brittany's heartbeat thumping against her own neck. She pulled away and forced Brittany to turn around, her eyes filling with fear because the pattern of beats she was listening to didn't feel like so encouraging._

"_What's wrong?" Santana asked, brow lifting in worry._

_Brittany peered up at her, influencing another bundle of nerves to grow in Santana's stomach, "What are we gonna do, San? When you're in college and I'm...still here."_

"_Why are you thinking about that, Britt?" Santana wondered, shaking her head lightly._

"_We've been avoiding it," Brittany reminded her._

_Santana took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest, "Okay so maybe we haven't talked so much about it but—"_

"_But what, Santana? You leave at the end of summer," Brittany pointed out in a broken voice, reminding Santana of the moment she had been trying hard not to think about until it came._

"_Brittany...what's...why are you thinking about this now?" she asked again, confused as to why it was all coming up then. Santana wondered how long Brittany had been feeling this way._

"_I don't know, I guess I just...don't want to spend a perfect summer with you knowing that I have to say goodbye at the end," Brittany confessed, eyes falling down sadly to look at the ground at her feet._

"_Hey..." Santana cooed, reaching out to take both Brittany's hands into her own, "Why are you so upset? It's not like we're never going to see each other."_

"_Sure, at Thanksgiving? And Christmas? Easter, if we're lucky?" Brittany said and looked up at Santana through watery eyes._

"_Britt...I—"_

"_Everything's changing," Brittany interrupted, "It's bad enough that I didn't graduate and I'm stuck here another year but now I have to do it without you."_

"_Is that it? You're mad that you didn't graduate?" Santana asked, hoping she'd say yes._

"_It's not just that, Santana," Brittany murmured, shaking her head lightly, "We're going to be 593 miles apart."_

_Santana sighed sweetly and tilted her head off to the side, "Did you look that up, B?"_

_Brittany lowered her gaze and kicked the ground nervously, embarrassed that she typed in the distance from Lima, Ohio to New York City in Google and memorized the numbers._

_Santana laughed quietly, "Come here."_

_She outstretched her arms and wrapped them around Brittany's neck, waiting to feel the comfort of their bodies pressed together. When Brittany shifted closer and joined her hands at the small of Santana's back, Santana strengthened her hold on her girlfriend. She let her hand sneak into the blonde hair and massage the back of her head soothingly, feeling Brittany's body relax immediately._

"_It's not that far if you think about it. We'll call and text and Skype. I'll come visit on my holidays. We'll be okay," Santana reassured, speaking softly into Brittany's ear._

_The silence that followed made Santana nervous. Brittany had never been so quiet before and it was beginning to feel like they were walking down a slow path towards something…unwanted, dangerous even._

_"But what about when you're busy with school," Brittany finally murmured into Santana's shoulder, "What about when you meet new friends and want to hang out with them. You're starting a new life, Santana, and I can't be in it."_

_Santana pulled away, frowning incredibly at Brittany, "Yes you can. And you will."_

_Brittany shook her head softly, sparking a dreadful twist in her girlfriend's stomach, "No, you don't get it. You're supposed to start a new chapter."_

_She reached up and gripped Santana's hand that was at her neck to bring it down in between them, stopping the strokes Santana had been making on her skin. Brittany glanced down at their joined hands and sucked in a breath before meeting Santana's eyes again. She stared momentarily, as if peering into the eyes of the most precious being in the world. _

_A small but heartbreaking smile appeared on Brittany's face, "And you can't have a girlfriend in Lima, Ohio, keeping you from that new start."_

_Santana's face crinkled in confusion, "Brittany, I don't want to break up with you."_

"_And I don't want to break up with you," Brittany said immediately._

"_It's not going to be easy," Santana admitted, "But…we've survived worse."_

_Brittany nodded and held her gaze with Santana. It was brief, however, because moments later Brittany broke away and turned to walk off to the side. Santana watched her girlfriend retreat to a bench and sit down._

"_Don't walk away from me, B," Santana begged, tossing her hands in the air and letting them fall back against her thighs helplessly, "What do you want? What are you thinking?"_

_Brittany sighed heavily, "This whole year has been so…amazing with you, Santana."_

_Santana winced, "It's been amazing for me too…"_

"_And…you make me so happy," Brittany continued, "More than I've ever been."_

_Santana was torn, half of her wanting to smile at the comment but the other half wanting to cry because the conversation was beginning to feel dangerous. She knew this was coming, that she would have to deal with it once the summer ended, but she thought she had a little more time. Santana had her whole summer planned out but she was starting to think that it was going to be over before it even began._

_She joined her girlfriend on the bench; taking the space next to her and feeling the tension between them amplify. Santana felt heavier and heavier into the night, like a weight was being attached every minute. _

"_Talk to me, Britt," Santana pleaded. _

_Brittany peered over to Santana, pressing her lips together tightly. It wasn't doing anything to help calm the nerves in Santana's system. _

"_I don't…" Santana struggled, "I don't know what you want me to say."_

_Brittany stared blankly at the space in front of her and all Santana could do was watch in worry. She waited but the air was thickening and she didn't know how long she could handle the tension._

"_I don't want you to say anything," Brittany finally said, "I want you to listen to me."_

_Santana's heart skipped one too many beats and she felt like she was dangling off the edge of a cliff. She had an idea, a very good one, about what Brittany might say. She knew this was a possible outcome but she was going to deal with it when summer ended, not now._

"_I…love you," Brittany said slowly, "You know I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else. I don't think that's going to change."_

_Heat was boiling behind Santana's eyes. She could feel the tears coming because she knew what was happening and Brittany's watery smile and glossy eyes weren't helping either. _

"_I love you too," Santana said quietly, noticing how tight her throat had become._

_"I know you do," Brittany said with a soft, loving smile. She let it linger momentarily before it started to fade, "But I think we...I think we have to think about what this is going to do to us, San."_

_"I can't stay here, Brittany," Santana admitted, feeling her chest swell even more uncomfortably. _

_"And I'm not letting you stay here," Brittany said strongly, "That's why you're going to go and you're not going to look back."_

You snap up from the bed, panting and sweating and dizzy. The transition happened so quickly that you can't properly process the next few seconds; whether you're in the real world or not. The back of your shirt feels damp, sticking to your skin uncomfortably. Your chest heaves up and down rapidly, even as you reach up to press your palm against it. It startles you to be able to feel your heartbeat pounding against the skin, pushing it up and down against your touch.

Your other hand comes up and holds your head as you scan the dark room, eyes trying hard to identify objects lost to the shadows. For a brief moment, you expect to see Brittany and the porch and Rachel's backyard but none of that is in front of you. You're confused until you realize, you're not in Lima.

You can't stop breathing so quickly because the more air you take in, the more air you seem to be letting escape. Nothing is filling up your lungs and it's frustrating because you can stop panting. Your entire respiratory system is speeding up and you're starting to feel lightheaded.

"Fuck," you breathe out, burying your face into your hands.

You collapse back into the pillows, the fall emitting a muffled thump into the atmosphere. After staring at the ceiling for some time, you reach over sloppily and palm the surface of the bedside table in search of your phone. When you grab hold of it, the light from the screen shatters your vision, blinding you temporarily before you are able to read that it's 2am.

It surprises you to know you only finished work no more than a few hours ago because it feels like you've been asleep for so much longer. Maybe it was the dream. Actually, the term nightmare seems more fitting now that you think of it. And it was the worst kind. This hasn't happened in a while; these night terrors, but you've had them before. The last one you can remember was around the time you dropped out of Columbia.

Your breathing has slowed but you're still sweating. The crease of your hairline is damp and the mattress underneath your back feels drenched in your fear. The words still linger in your thoughts, floating around like annoying flies. The image of her face, seventeen year old Brittany, keeps flashing across your vision and you want it to stop.

_-I'm not going to forget about you, Brittany, I can't do that_-

Your own voice echoes in your head and you shut your eyes tightly, reaching up to cover your face with your hands.

_-Just promise me you won't let anything in Lima, including me, hold you back. Promise me that, Santana-_

Her voice chimes in and you press the heels of your palm into your eyes, pushing hardly, trying anything to make it stop.

_-__I...I-_

Stop. God, you just want it to stop but it's not stopping. You roll over and snatch the pillow from under your head, folding it over both of your ears tightly. You're panting again, waiting for the next sentence to fly across your thoughts but it never comes. You listen, carefully and expectantly, but it's just the sound of your breathing now, nothing else. It's quiet, empty, like your mind has been abandoned by your body. You're okay, for now. As long as it stays like this, silent, you think you can fall back to sleep. But sleep is where the memories rest, awaiting your arrival so they can haunt you again. Maybe sleep isn't what you want. The only thing left for you to do now is wait. For what? You aren't quite sure, you just wait.

* * *

"So did you work things out with Santana?" Tina asks as she hands Brittany her order and takes hers as well. They move over to the ingredients station of the coffee shop and proceed to add sugar and milk and other substances to their beverages.

"Uh I think so," Brittany answers in a mostly confident tone, shaking a pack of sugar into her coffee.

Tina finishes doctoring up her drink and they both shift to find a table to sit at, Tina suspecting Brittany's uncertainty, "But…"

"Well I think she's clear about me and Sam but," Brittany shrugs, "I think I scared her."

"What?" Tina chuckles, "How could you scare her?"

They eventually find in the corner of the shop, which they prefer because the chatter won't be as interfering.

"I didn't...I mean, I wasn't going to…kiss her exactly but…" Brittany hesitates, picking at the paper wrapping around her cup, "I just stepped in closer and I think she freaked out."

"Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, Britt," Tina says before sipping on her coffee.

"Yeah, I know it wasn't," Brittany says quietly before sinking into her seat, "I don't know…she's different, Tina."

"How do you mean?" Tina asks, leaning back into her chair.

"I mean, she's still Santana but…it's like she went back to being that scared girl we all used to know in high school," Brittany confesses.

"That's what we've been thinking lately too," Tina adds, "I know she didn't exactly 'come out' but dating you, the whole of senior year, the first years here in New York...that's been…really good progress. For the past several months though, it's like she's taking steps backwards."

"What did Quinn say about her first year in New York?" Brittany asks, "Since we were both still in Lima."

"Well, Quinn mentioned finding Santana crying a couple times but she said it seemed normal," Tina answers, "I wasn't there yet but I assumed she was sad about the break up, just like you were."

"Sorry about that, by the way," Brittany says, chuckling lightly, "I didn't mean to make your senior year such a drag for the first few months."

"Brittany," Tina laughs, "Don't be silly. I wanted to be there for you. You and Santana were a big thing, it was only normal that you were sad for a while."

"I know we both agreed on it in the end," Brittany says, steering to a different topic, "But I feel like she might blame me."

"For the break up?" Tina asks.

"I never wanted to us to break up...but we had to," Brittany clarifies, "I knew that she couldn't succeed in New York if she was tied down to Lima. I would have held her back and a girl like Santana...she needs to shine."

"You don't have to explain yourself, Britt," Tina says considerately, "I don't blame you. Quinn doesn't blame you and I really don't think Santana blames you for it."

"I don't know…" Brittany shrugs, glancing down at her coffee, "I'm just worried about her, Tina. She has that same kind of fear in her eyes every time I look at her, the kind I used to see before we officially got together and all."

"I know you're worried, we all are," Tina reassures, "But that's why we're going to fix it."

"What do you think happened?" Brittany wonders.

"Well, everything seemed fine when I moved here a year afterwards. Santana was in her sophomore year at Columbia and Quinn was the same but over at NYU. I was starting my freshman there and we thought it'd be so much fun if I lived with them too."

"I think it's great you all live together," Brittany adds, smiling sweetly.

"It is great but…it's been better," Tina says a little disappointedly.

"So when did she drop out?" Brittany follows up, keeping Tina on track of what she had been saying previously.

"Right, well things were normal and fine until about last March, so…uhh," Tina pauses, calculating in her head, "Yeah about six months ago."

"What happened then?" Brittany probes.

"Uh well, I think it was a few weeks after coming back from Spring Break in Miami. She told us that she was thinking about leaving Columbia."

"Why?" Brittany asks, frowning confusedly.

"I don't know," Tina responds, puzzled just thinking about it again, "And about a month and half later, she did it. She dropped out."

"And she never said why?" Brittany wonders, still struggling to connect the dots.

"Well that's the thing!" Tina exclaims, "When she got back, she told us it was great fun and all...and then she brought up the whole leaving college thing."

"Just like that?" Brittany questions, trying to process the information she's received in the last few minutes.

"Just like that," Tina confirms, "She told us she hadn't been liking it there for a while and that it wasn't turning out to be the school for her."

"Maybe she really didn't like it anymore," Brittany suggests, attempting to simplify the situation.

"The thing is…it never seemed like a problem before," Tina explains, "But we understood that reason, and we thought she would end up transferring…if not another place in the city then somewhere else. She never did, though. She got a job and started working. She just gave up."

"That doesn't make any sense," Brittany says, staring at her cup of coffee and shaking her head, "Why would she just give up like that?"

"I don't know…" Tina shrugs, "That's what we're trying to find out."

"She wouldn't do that without a reason," Brittany says confidently, meeting Tina's eyes again with a certain surety, "Something happened during Spring Break."

* * *

"Hey," Quinn greets, peering up from her book when she notices you've finally emerged from your room.

After waking up in the middle of the night, you managed to fall back to sleep about an hour later and luckily without another visit from the past. You don't think you could have dealt with two in one night. You still can't stop thinking about this one, the one where you relived a memory you've been desperately trying to forget since it happened. You can almost feel the thoughts about the dream come back, the events of last night making a reappearance, but you force the ideas away before they get too close.

"Where's Tina?" you ask quietly, too softly that Quinn probably had to strain her ears to hear it.

"She been out with Britt since 10," Quinn answers and watches your reaction, though you try not to make any type of face. You know Tina and Brittany are talking about you. The 'how's school and updating each other on life' conversation can't last forever and you know that they probably moved onto the subject of you at some point.

"How long have you been up?" Quinn wonders.

"A while," you mutter and cross your arms over your chest. It's almost four in the afternoon and you woke up about an hour ago, but she doesn't have to know the details.

Quinn gestures to the counter, "I made brunch this morning so there's leftover bacon, _if _you're hungry."

You nod and press your lips together, which happens to be the best kind of smile you can give. You do feel bad sometimes, with the way you handle things with Quinn and Tina now. The three of you used to be more involved and outgoing. You know you messed things up, especially with Quinn. She's been your best friend for so long and six months ago, it was as if that part of your relationship didn't matter anymore. And you do miss her, you won't deny that.

Eventually, you push yourself off the frame of your door and walk towards the counter, interested in that bacon. You pick up the plate and sit yourself down at the stool, picking up a piece and chewing on it. The apartment stays quiet as Quinn returns to her book and you munch on a few strips of bacon, secretly savoring the taste of it. The fact that Quinn doesn't try to make conversation reminds you how well she knows you. Or maybe she's using reverse psychology because you have the sudden urge to talk to her and not just about anything, about serious things. You think Brittany has something to do with it, your new found desire to make things right again. Ever since she walked back into your life, it's like she shined a light down on you so all the mistakes you've made become visible. But instead of making you feel bad about them, Brittany supplies you with the motivation to fix it all.

As you finish off the last piece, you jump off the stool and take the plate into the kitchen. You wash it in the sink and place it into the dishwasher, wiping your hands on the hand towel once you're done. You realize Quinn is probably wondering what you're doing because you hardly ever do the dishes. It isn't that you're lazy, which you are, but more that you don't make a habit of eating at home anymore like you used to. You usually grab something outside or order take out that you can just throw away easily.

After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you start making your way back to your room. Each step is like a heavy weight dropping to the floor and it takes you long enough to realize that you want to talk to Quinn. Just before you reach the door, you pause and take a deep breath. You don't really know how this is going to work or what you're going to say exactly, but there's an itch inside you that wants to talk to her. Maybe you even want to discuss your nightmare last night, just to tell someone about it because you feel like it'll eat away at you if you keep it in. That's what the other secrets you've been keeping started doing and you're pretty sure that by now, your insides looked like walls of ripped and scratched flesh.

"I'm sorry," you say and squint insecurely, shutting your eyes because you feel stupid for starting the conversation with an apology that you don't quite know what refers to.

There's an uncomfortable silence and you're afraid to face Quinn and see her reaction. Still, you push through it and turn around, biting on your bottom lip nervously. When you finally do peer up, you notice that she put her book down and is in the middle of sitting up straight.

"You wanna talk about something?" she finally asks but it wasn't the question you had been expecting.

You play with the wrapper of the water bottle, feeling doubt rush all through your system, "Uh…n-never mind."

"Santana," she says firmly before you can retreat back to your bedroom, "Come sit down."

You sigh and drag yourself over to the couch she's sitting on, plopping yourself down on the other side. You bring your legs up too and cross them as you run a hand through your hair. Quinn looks at you kindly and you know it's because she doesn't want you to run away again like you have been doing every time a serious conversation starts.

"Was there something you wanted to talk about?" Quinn asks, shifting to make herself more comfortable.

Your eyes fall to your lap, watching the way you pick at your nails. You remember that this is a habit of yours, when you're nervous, because Brittany used to tell you that all the time. She would always giggle because she found it so adorable. You never understood that but you didn't care because anything that made Brittany smile wasn't something you questioned.

"You know I'm here," she reminds you, "And so is Tina. We're always here."

"W-What do you guys…think of me?" you ask quietly.

"What?" Quinn reacts unsurely because she probably hadn't been expecting you to ask that. You don't know what you want from the question; you just know that you hate not knowing about what people think of you. It's a flawed logic but growing up in a place like McKinley made you prone to judgment and you hated the talks and the looks.

You peer up at Quinn and try to tell her again but can't seem to find the right phrasing, "I know that…you're all…worried or something…"

Quinn sighs, understanding what kind of response you're looking for, "San…we just feel like we're losing you a little bit. Did something happen? Something that made you want to quit school?"

Yes, of course something happened.

"I…uh, I'm fine," you answer, avoiding the question because you don't think you're ready for _that _conversation yet, "I told you…I didn't want to study anymore."

"Okay," Quinn says understandingly, but with a hint of judgment that makes you a little angry, "It just doesn't really add up. You had these huge dreams, San. What happened to those?"

"Dreams aren't realistic," you say coldly, starting to feel yourself build up those walls that you had temporarily pushed down at the beginning of this discussion. Your choice of words ignites a chill over your skin_—_dreams_—_and you're suddenly reminded of last night again.

"But that's why we have them," Quinn responds, "To _make_ what seems impossible possible. What about everything you talked about in Glee club? About how you wanted to be an actress one day?"

"I didn't know any better," you explain harshly.

Quinn sighs in defeat and retracts, "I'm not going to fight with you, okay? None of us are trying to piss you off. We just want the old you back."

"The old me?" you say, huffing rudely.

"Yes," Quinn reassures and her firm tone makes you a little nervous, "The old you. I'm not going to yell at you, Santana, but you should know that I'm really trying hard not to. This is exactly the kind of person you were before you straightened up in senior year and started taking responsibility for yourself. Why would you go back to that?"

You swallow nervously, finding it difficult to think of rude comeback or a harsh response. You know that it's particularly hard because Quinn is entirely right. There's no denying that you've degraded as a person in the past few months. You know you made so much progress and you know you threw it all away. You feel like you should have prepared yourself more for this conversation, that you dove too deep before you knew how to swim.

"San…" Quinn continues, "I love you, you know that. You're my best friend. But this isn't you, okay? Dropping out of college…working at a bar, giving up on what you want? None of that is who you are and you know that. Hell, we didn't talk for our entire junior year at McKinley because you were so set on stealing the head cheerleader spot from me. That's how committed you were and even though it was a stupid thing to go crazy about, at least you wer passionate about wanting something."

Something warm pools behind your eyes, like tears, but you don't want to think that you're about to cry. You're normally stronger than this. The lump in your throat becomes more noticeable as it climbs up, scraping the walls of skin so the flesh swells inside there. You swallow again but it's powerful and it's not backing down.

"You're not this girl," Quinn starts again, and you really need her to stop because you don't think you can fight it, "Tina and Brittany and I, we all know how ambitious you are. We all know how successful you're going to be one day whether it's in an office or on the big screen. We just don't know what happened to make you forget all about that."

"Stop," you mumble very quietly before lowering your head to shield your watery eyes from Quinn's view. Your lips start to tremble and you feel a teardrop hanging at the end of an eyelash, threatening to fall any second now. You quickly reach up and thumb it away, regretting that move because it made it obvious that you are on the verge of tears.

"A-Are you…" Quinn tries to ask but you cut her off when you stand up quickly. You're lost for the split of a second, confused as to where you're going to go now, but you can't stay here. The first thing you think of is your room, so you storm towards it and ignore the call that Quinn shouts after you, "Santana!"

Her voice is silenced when you slam the door and isolate yourself. Your thumb reaches around the doorknob and locks it just in time because seconds later, Quinn tries to open it. You jerk your hand away and hold it at your chest, trying to stop it from shaking. You're breathing escalates quickly but you cover your mouth so it doesn't make too much noise. You think with the dream about Brittany and you last night together with the harshness, not to mention bluntness, of Quinn's lecture was too much of a push in scary direction.

"Santana," Quinn's muffled voice says from behind the door, "I…I didn't meant to…upset you. Look, I'm sorry okay? I was just…can you just open the door, please?"

You press your lips together and feel a lonely tear drop down the side of your face, burning your cheek. You wince and use both hands to fist the hem of your shirt tightly, as if trying to hold on to something. Your entire body feels anxious and chaotic, like you're about to go insane or explode.

"San…" Quinn tries again but you ignore her. You hate feeling this weak and vulnerable. You hate it when Quinn or Tina tells you that this person you've become isn't who you are. Not because it's annoying or because they're wrong, but because they never been so right.

Your head tilts back and rests against the door, eyes closing to try and shut out everything in this world. Sometimes you wish that existed, an escape. You wouldn't want to go forever, but sometimes it would be nice to be able to have a place where you could come and go but when you're there, you didn't have to think so much. A place where the universe was exactly the way you wanted it, all according to you. Maybe a place where you could choose the colors of nature and weather in the skies and how many stars turn up each night.

You're on the ground now, sitting in front of the door with your back leaned against it and your legs tucked at your chest. Your arms are wrapped around your knees, hugging them tightly to you. She stopped talking and asking you to open the door but you know that doesn't mean she's going to let this go. Quinn is onto you now and she's not going to stop. Crying was the sign she needed to know that something was wrong, that you weren't okay like you had been lying to them for a while now. Quinn's like you—or like who you used to be—she doesn't stop until she gets what she wants. And unfortunately, that means she's going to pry out the truth from you whether you like it or not.

A few minutes pass in a quiet apartment and you're still in the same position. You can't tell if she left, or went back to reading, or is sitting right on the other side of the door waiting for you. You almost get up and try to take a peak when her voice comes through again.

"Okay…" Quinn says, "I'm not going to make you come out of there. But we're going to talk about this, Santana."

You stay silent, waiting until you hear her shuffle and stand up. Her footsteps grow distant and you know she's finally gone when you can no longer hear the thumps on the floor. Your heart starts to pump faster, but the wrong kind, the bad kind. It's not the way it beats when you're around Brittany, it doesn't make you feel better. The pattern in your chest is dangerous, like a rush of poisonous adrenaline.

Something triggers and you start to panic. You think it might be because of the daunting determination in Quinn's tone of voice, about how she's going to get to the bottom of your problem and dish it out. You're scared that she's going to push you before you're ready. Quinn has always understood you well but she's not the same as Brittany in the sense that she's less considerate of your feelings. She's demanding and she's harsh with you, because she knows that's what will get you to talk_—_eventually. Quinn has made it clear that this situation isn't going to be avoided any longer. You're going to have to come clean soon.

No, no, not now, not yet. It's too fast, all of it, you need more time.

You scramble up from the floor and rush over to your desk. There's a pair of jeans draped over the chair as well as your handbag that hangs off the side. You rummage through the bag first, pulling out fistfuls of items but none of them the one thing that you want. You move to your jeans and check the front pockets, finding nothing, before searching through the back ones. You have it now, in your hands.

You're stupid, so, so stupid, but that doesn't stop you from pouring a line out onto your desk. You sniff the last of your tears away and try to focus on your hands, refining the edges of the powder with a small piece of paper. They're shaking, you can't ignore that, but you still try anyways. You usually don't do this on your own but right now, you couldn't care less. Maybe that place you were talking about earlier is possible because you have this. The drugs can take you there, easily.

It burns violently on the insides of your nose after you bent down and sniffed the line. You shut your eyes tightly, waiting out the flash of pain and anticipating the part where it starts to feel good. Your hand comes up to wipe your nose and you start brushing the little remains back into the baggie.

The room starts to shift unrealistically and you know that it's kicking in. You know it was a risk doing this here, at home, with Quinn right on the other side of the door. You're stupid, that's the only word you can think of right now to describe yourself.

Everything stays dizzy for the next few minutes as you pace around the room_—_more like stumble actually. You keep rubbing your temple, rubbing your eyes, but the good part doesn't seem to come. It's never taken this long to get started before. You just want to feel lighter, less attached to the earth, less attached to yourself.

Then you taste it…blood. You reach up and feel the warm substance above your lip, pulling away to find your finger tips covered in red.

"Shit," you mutter, and wipe your noise, staining the back of your hand with blood. You glance up and look around anxiously; trying to find something you can use to clean it off. You have two bathrooms in this apartment but the closest one is outside your door. You can't leave your room, not with blood dripping out of your nose and down your arm.

A few drops fall onto your shirt and stain the material. It wasn't this bad the first time and you're starting to panic again. You pinch your nose shut and tilt your head back, stumbling towards the closet to pull out a hand towel from the drawer. When you reach for it, you notice how significantly your hands tremble.

You press the cloth to your nose and grimace when the contact hurts. You don't know what this means but you know this isn't a good sign. A few of the other girls have talked about their nosebleeds but you weren't worried because you thought they were doing way more often than you were. Apparently you assumed wrong because the amount you're sniffing now is seems enough to bring on that side effect. You know you have to stop this, and some days you swear you will. But isn't that how it starts—an addiction? Isn't that how you know you're hooked? When you keep telling yourself you'll stop one day and then find yourself knee deep in it the next. You don't want to say it; what you are. You don't want to put a label on yourself but you know it might as well be scribbled down on a piece of paper and taped to your back.

It's been another few minutes sitting at your desk with your head tilted back to slow the flow. From what you can see, the white hand towel is almost completely drenched in your own blood and the amount of red that fills your vision is a little frightening.

You think it's okay to pull away now, so you gradually remove the cloth from your face and stretch out your nose. You set the towel on the desk and sniff gently, relieved to find that there's no more fresh blood. Still, you know that your entire nose and upper lip must be pink from the stains and drying of blood and you don't know how to get it off. Whatever Brittany used on you last time must have worked but you don't have that. It was probably disinfectant liquid of some sort.

You don't have anything on your make up table, except nail polish remover but you don't think that would work. There's a box of make-up remover pads, which seem like the closest thing, so you go for those and try to wipe off area you've been bleeding on. It works to a certain extent because you see that the pad becomes pink once you start cleaning off your face. You're just concerned about getting rid of most of it so that you can sneak out of the apartment without Quinn noticing anything strange on your face.

The time on your phone reads 5:30pm and you have to be at work soon. You picked up the Sunday night shifts that nobody wanted because you need the money. Plus, you don't hate your job at all and you can't stand being home all the time so you didn't see why you wouldn't take the shift.

You quickly finish wiping off what you can and throw the pads into the trash. Your shirt comes up over your head before you start rummaging through the closet to find the customized black shirt that they make you wear at work. You slide it on and proceed to change into the jeans that were draped on the chair. You look at yourself in the mirror on the door of your closet and check that you don't look too horrible. The spaces underneath your eyes are slightly dark and your eyes are a little red. You think you can pull off the 'tired' look and make an excuse about not having slept well last night. Well, you actually wouldn't be lying about that since you're night _was_ interrupted. Still, you would have preferred that you didn't look so pale and dull. At least the blood isn't noticeable anywhere on your face so you are thankful for that.

It's been about 45 minutes since you heard Quinn talk but you feel like she's still sitting out there. You pray that she's retreated to her room to give you space but for some reason, you highly doubt she's going to be letting you excuse yourself from talking about it any longer. She seems determined to get through to you now and that's a little overwhelming, even a bit terrifying.

At last minute, you throw the baggie of coke into your handbag and slide it over your shoulder. You fluff out your hair and comb your bangs with your fingers so that they cover your most of your eyes. When you open the door, you're surprised to see that the living room and kitchen are empty and Quinn's door is closed. You don't waste time standing and quickly maneuver your way towards the front door.

Just as you reach out for the knob, it swings open and you stumble backwards. Your eyes shoot open in shock when you see Tina walk in but your heart explodes in your chest when you see who follows behind her. Immediately, you lower your head and grip the strap of your handbag.

"Santana?" Tina says in surprise.

"Gotta go," you quickly blurt out, ducking to make your way past both of them, "Work."

* * *

"Wait…Santana!?" Tina calls out as both she and Brittany watch a rushed Santana scurry her way out the door and down the hallway.

Brittany stares longer, frowning at the way Santana left and finding it rather worrying, "Should I go—"

"Don't bother," another voice says from inside the apartment. Both girls turn to find Quinn leaning against the counter, "Let her be."

"What's going on?" Tina asks worriedly, stepping in and proceeding to set down her keys and purse. Brittany comes in too, closing the door behind her but still fighting the urge to sprint after Santana and find out what was wrong.

"I almost got it out of her," Quinn reveals, sighing as she makes her way into the kitchen to pull out some things for dinner, "You staying to eat, Britt?"

"Sure, I'd love to," Brittany responds before shaking her head and focusing on what they had been talking about, "Wait…what did you almost get out of her?"

"She was talking to me about it…about some things and then I think…I scared her," Quinn explains, still feeling bad about upsetting Santana, "She stormed away and locked herself in her room. I think she might of cried."

"What did you say to her?" Brittany asks, raising her voice from the sudden urge to protect Santana.

"Calm down, Britt. I didn't hurt her okay?" Quinn reassures peacefully.

"Sorry," Brittany apologizes quietly, "Instinct."

Tina smiles softly at Brittany before gesturing them to move into kitchen. She eyes Quinn suspiciously, remembering what Brittany had confessed to her earlier about thinking she scared Santana too when she stepped in too close. Tina realizes the pattern of Santana continuously being afraid of people getting too close to her or to a part of her that she's trying to keep hidden. That's the thought; that she is definitely hiding something, a secret.

"Okay it was a little strange because she said started off by saying she was sorry," Quinn explains, "And then she didn't really say what she was sorry for and so I asked her if there was something she wanted to talk about."

"And she talked?" Tina says, surprised with Santana's behavior.

"Sort of...she asked me what we thought of her, why we were worried," Quinn continues, taking out a cutting board and a knife onto the counter, "I told her that we felt like she wasn't the person that we all know her to be and that we're all just trying to figure out what changed."

Brittany and Tina settle themselves in, finding stools in front of Quinn to sit down and continue the conversation. They spent the past couple hours together, talking at the coffee shop first before going to get manicures together. Tina has a few important things to tell Quinn but whatever Quinn has to say seems more interesting right now.

"I basically said that she wasn't herself anymore, that she wasn't the Santana we knew," Quinn finishes. Brittany sighs audibly, shaking her head lightly to which the other two find strange.

Quinn calls Brittany out on her reaction, "What?"

"Santana doesn't…take those kind of comments well," Brittany admits quietly.

"What do you mean?" Tina wonders.

"She's just…from what I remember, she's very insecure about not being good enough," Brittany explains, feeling her chest expand from talking about Santana this way. She hates that they can't all just discuss this together. Brittany has never liked keeping things from Santana and she doesn't want to start making a habit of it, not when she still has to fight her way back into her life.

"Oh, right we know that," Quinn says, pausing from chopping a few carrots up to lean on the counter, "But…I wasn't saying she was a bad person."

"Oh I know you weren't," Brittany acknowledges, "But that part of her sort of takes over every time you try to tell her something about herself."

"Yeah," Tina agrees, "I've noticed that."

"Well, I'm just telling you guys that I think we're close now," Quinn says confidently, "I think we should wait a few days, see if she decides to come to us but if she doesn't...we'll get it out of her."

Tina looks cautiously over to Brittany who squirms in her chair at Quinn's suggestion and decides to speak for the both of them, "Uhh...Quinn that's a little...harsh."

"She's been doing this for too long, guys," Quinn tries to convince, "I'm not saying we force her...I'm just saying we stop letting her run away."

"I don't like making Santana do things she doesn't want to do," Brittany confesses, "I don't think I'm okay with that."

Quinn sighs, knowing she'd probably have the hardest time getting Brittany on board with her plan. She doesn't blame her, though, because she knows how much Brittany cares about Santana. She understands their relationship, more than Tina does, but she's still thinks her idea is going to work. If they corner Santana without making it seem too threatening and terrifying, they're bound to get some answers.

"Okay, let's just talk more about this," Tina says, neutralizing the tension, "We think we've come up with some ideas too."

"Yeah?" Quinn says with curiosity, willing to listen to what they have discovered today, "Like what?"

"Remember Spring Break?" Tina asks and watches the way Quinn's face crinkles as she tries to recall the memory, "...when San went Miami with a bunch of friends from her school?"

"Yeah..." Quinn responds slowly, looking up from her task of scooping her chopped carrots into a bowl, "What about it?"

"Well, Britt and I were talking and...I realized that was around the time Santana sort of...lost it," Tina reminds her.

Quinn puts the pieces together in her head, "And you think something happened during her trip?"

"She seemed fine before that," Tina says, providing evidence for her assumption, "She was enjoying it at Columbia. She seemed happy, she was the Santana we all know and love."

"Tina said that a few weeks after coming back...she started acting differently," Brittany fills in, offering her two cents, "I think it's clear that something must have happened while she was away because you both seem to be entirely sure that it wasn't just that she honestly wanted to quit college."

"She didn't," Quinn responds, "Santana showed no signs of that in the first year and a half."

"Right..." Tina says, "So we're thinking Spring Break is where the story begins."

They all take a moment to think on the idea, assessing it's validity and how well it fits into the context of Santana's downfall. It makes too much sense to deny it. Santana was doing quite well her freshman and sophomore year in college; Quinn was there to see it all and Tina was there to witness half of it. It's rare that people make drastic changes without a purpose or an influence. We can almost always assume there is a motive behind an action and that's what the three of them are trying to dig for; Santana's motive to quitting school and giving up. If Santana was a quitter, then this would be a different story. Quinn, Tina and Brittany wouldn't find it so surprising that she dropped out. But Santana isn't and has never been the kind to give up and surrender, which is why they have to find out what happened that was so strong, so manipulating, that she let walk all over her and her life.

"So what are we going to do?" Quinn asks, setting down her cooking utensils with her eyes shifting back and forth between the two other girls.

Brittany and Tina glance at each other, sharing a look of agreement before Tina eventually leans in to propose a plan, "We find out what went down during Spring Break."

* * *

**A/N: Hii :') Hope you enjoyed the update. I don't know whether some of you were a little confused at the beginning but in case you didn't eventually get it, Santana was having a flashback in her sleep. We're going to see more flashbacks later on, to help develop the plot because I realize that revealing everything through dialogue can be less effective than actually showing you parts of what happened . Anyways, thanks to all that are still reading and I hope you stay tuned. Also, don't hate Quinn. She means well :) Love you! :) xx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Lost and Insecure (You Found Me)**

You stumble into the bar, flustered and rushed, with the sole agenda of getting straight to the locker room without interruptions. You weren't expecting to bump into Tina let alone Brittany on your way out and all you've been thinking about for the ten minutes it took to get here is what they're doing back at the apartment. Whatever they're talking about, it has to be about you right? You just don't like the sound of that.

There are a few tables and stools that you have to dodge and maneuver your way past but eventually, you reach the door and push it open. You're relieved that the hallway is empty and that—

"Santana!"

You sigh. _Was _empty.

"Hey, wait up," the voice calls out again as you hear footsteps approaching you from behind. She must have seen you walk in. You slow down, feeling the nerves tangle inside your stomach.

"What," you say coldly, turning around to meet the face you were expecting to see, but not one you wanted to see. You've been avoiding her since you scrambled out of her apartment the other day, since you told her quite clearly that you didn't want her.

She releases a quick breath from having to catch up with you and stands upright, "I-I just…I wanted to know if…"

You arch your eyebrows, pressuring her to finish her sentence so you can part ways again. Treating someone this way isn't something you enjoy, but you don't know what else to do. You know you got yourself into this mess, and that you're being a complete asshole about it, but you don't know how to make her understand that there is nothing here. There's not even the slightest chance.

"Yeah…um today, if you don't mind," you spit rudely, "I've got things to do."

"God, would you stop that?" she exclaims, but squints as if she's preparing to take a slap to the face.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm a person too, Santana," she fights back again, still with some hesitation, "I…I have feelings. You can't just talk to me like that."

You frown, retracting backwards at her sudden objection. Your lips part but you don't have anything to say yet, no thoughts into words or words into sentences. She trembles lightly in front of you and it's the first time you actually feel bad about your relationship with her. No, _relationship _sounds too intimate. Despite the fact that the two of you have had sex, more than once, you really don't consider there to be anything significant between you. She's just a body to run to, to press against, when you're too scared to hold the one that you truly want, the one that actually fits perfectly with yours.

There's another punch to your gut because you can't believe you've reverted back to running away from your feelings. That was all you did in high school and it was like you came around full circle just to end up right back where you were a few years ago with the same amount of fear and insecurity.

"Ugh…I'm such an idiot," she says, chuckling in self pity but you see how quickly her eyes become watery, "…to think you might be different when really, you're just an outright bitch."

The small ounce of guilt you felt washes away completely and you clench your jaw, "Say one more fucking word."

She hesitates nervously, trying to stand her ground but finds it too overwhelming. You glare at her ruthlessly until she crumbles and pushes past you, hurrying towards the direction that you were planning on going once the conversation was over. Now you can't put away your bag because you know she'll be in the locker room, crying. If you cared about her, you'd go after her and try to apologize.

_If _you cared about her.

You decide to ditch it and head straight for the bar, figuring you'll hang onto your bag and stuff it behind the counter somewhere. As you push the door open, entering back the way you were coming from, you feel a vibration in your pocket. It startles you at first as you wiggle uncomfortably before realizing that you just received a message.

You pull the device out as you make your way behind the counter and set your bag down. Blindly, because your eyes are busy with your phone, you walk over to the area where the aprons hang and reach out, clenching fists of air until you finally grab hold of one. You freeze momentarily when you see who the text is from, but soon enough your heart kicks in and the girl from the hallway disappears from your thoughts like she never existed.

_Are you okay? – Brittany. _

The bottom of your throat swells because your pulse starts to thump there. You assume she's still with Quinn and Tina, but that upsets you. In fact, it makes you a little angry. You don't like that they pulled Brittany back into your mess. In fact, by doing that, they managed to do the one thing that you've been trying so hard to avoid since—

Buzz.

_Please tell me you are. – Brittany._

Your thumb reaches over and brushes the screen softly, feeling a shift occur inside you. You pull your bottom lip into your mouth, hesitant to respond. The anger returns, boiling somewhere at the pit of your stomach, but not _at_ Brittany. No, you're angry because you know she's worrying about you and that is not something that you want. You don't want to put her through the stress you always seem to cause people. She has endured too much of that already; putting her through it again would only be cruel.

The light from the screen starts to blur your vision from staring too long and hard at it, rereading the texts. You sniff quickly, because your nose still feels stiff, and lock the phone, shoving it back into your pocket. You don't know what to say. Telling her that you're okay would be lying and you can't lie to Brittany. Not because you're a bad liar—you're an excellent one at that—but because keeping something from her is like trying to keep a lion in a cage half its size. Except, that cage is your body and that lion is the secret, clawing its way through every bit of flesh until it breaks through.

You reach out and grip the edge of the counter, breathing out steadily to settle down. You feel a little shaky, probably from the events that occurred in the past hour alone, but there's something else too. Brittany asked whether you were okay and now all you can think about is how you're not okay. Moreover, how 'not okay' you've been for the past few months. The pure fact that she can make you think about this—something you've pushed so far away that you've sometimes found yourself believing the lies—tells you so much about how you still feel.

_Not right now_, you repeat in your head once the thoughts become overwhelming. You need a small moment, a few minutes dedicated to yourself, before you can go back to work. A few minutes dedicated to the real you, before you can continue to pretend that you're okay again.

"Lopeezz!" you hear someone call out playfully.

"Jesus," you breathe out, as your body shoots straight up out of shock. You press a palm against your chest because, as if your heart wasn't already beating fast enough, it starts to pound like it'll explode right out of your chest.

"Every. Single. Time," Puck laughs, pausing after each word for dramatic effect.

He takes a seat in the stool at the bar and joins his hands together on top of the counter, eyeing you with a sly grin. You glare at him for a brief moment before lunging forward to throw a hard punch at his arm. Unfortunately, he flexes right before you do it and since you're not nearly as strong as he is, your knuckles become the victims.

"Ow," he fakes, rubbing the spot you hit with an exaggerated wince.

"God dammit," you spit, releasing your fist and wagging your hand in the air to pass the ache quicker.

"What'd I tell you 'bout the guns, Lopez?" Puck warns, "Mess with the them, they'll mess with you."

You snort and chuckle impulsively, shaking your head at how lame he sounds. He perks up with a left over smile on his face, losing some of that comical bad boy manner as he admires the way you laugh. Your chuckle gradually dies down into a lingering smile, lasting briefly before it almost fades away completely.

"You should really smile more often, Santana," Puck confesses, his voice changing to something softer.

Something shifts in your stomach and you swallow nervously. Maybe you won't ever admit it out loud but you really care about Puck. You've been such an asshole lately but it's different with him than it is with the girls. He doesn't take any offense to it because he knows that this is how you cope with things. You make bitchy comments and insulting remarks. Everyone knows that about you but not everyone can take it when you start spitting fire; case in point, the girl from the hallway. Puck is the kind of guy you can scream to all day and he'll just take it.

"Shut up," you say stubbornly, and he laughs like you expected. You press your lips together into a weak smile, nothing compared to the one you had on moments ago. You occupy yourself with some glasses, cleaning them a few times even though you can see the twinkle in your eye with how shiny they are already.

"What are you doing here?" you ask when you remember that he doesn't work on Sundays with you.

"Right, yeah," he says as he stands up, focusing on what he had initially come here for, "Just stopped by to tell Jerry I'm taking tomorrow and Tuesday off."

"Why?" you ask.

"Rachel's back," he says, grinning widely.

"How is Ber…Rachel?" you correct yourself, glancing over to him as you're wiping a smudge at the rim.

His smile falters, "She's good."

Puck shrugs with a small hint of sadness that you can't ignore. You don't know why you've been overly emotional today but you seem to be feeling a lot more sympathy for Puck than you normally do. The day has been overwhelming, that's for sure. That's also why you asked the question about Rachel, because for once you'd like a conversation _not _to be about you so that you don't have to think about yourself.

"She's just…busy," he continues like you knew he would if you stayed quiet, "Being on Broadway has her doing shows…all the time."

"Maybe you should have thought a little harder before you packed up and moved to New York for her," you remind him, not to piss him off but just to avoid the conversation moving into the awkward let's-share-our-feelings territory.

Puck laughs, backing up and stretching his arms out wide with a proud smirk on his face, "Hey, I got the girl didn't I?"

You give him a dirty look, "Get lost."

He laughs again as he pulls out his phone, scrolling through whatever it is he's looking at. There's a moment of silence that you both tolerate with your own tasks, him checking his messages and you cleaning off another glass.

When he's done, Puck clears his throat, "So what are you up to these days? Everything alright?"

You slow down the scrubbing temporarily, eyes staring into space as you contemplate his question and your answer, "Yeah…I'm fine."

"Have you, uh..." he hesitates but you know exactly what he wants to ask you.

"Say what you gotta say, Puckerman."

"Seen Brittany lately?" Puck finally asks, putting his phone into his back pocket and giving you his undivided attention. Now that makes you nervous.

"Uh yeah," you say with a shrug and a little hesitation, "Sure…a few times."

"Oh," he reacts pleasantly but you give him a suspicious glare, "And…is everything okay between you two?"

You sigh with irritation, setting the glass down and placing both hands onto the counter, "Sure? I don't know. What does it matter to you?"

You're frustrated that you're back to talking about you again. Why is it so hard for people to just say something about their day or something they saw that doesn't have to lead to a serious conversation? This entire week has been full of those and you're tired of them. Whatever happened to small talk? You normally hate it because it's always so awkward but you'd rather endure that than another wary discussion involving the topic of whether you are okay or not. You'd give anything to hear Puck start talking about a crazy homeless guy he passed by on the street or a funny billboard he read.

"Okay, okay," he says, nodding as he gradually removes himself from the situation and starts towards the offices in the back, "Well…if anything comes up, you can always…talk to me or whatever."

You press your lips in a tight line and watch as he clicks his tongue and turns around on his heels. You hear the door push open but you never hear it shut.

"And it does matter to me because you matter to me, Santana," Puck adds with half of his body in the door. You look over your shoulder, eyeing him with a stare that reveals both power and fragility in you; a deadly combination for those who posses it.

"You don't always have to be so tough, Lopez."

He disappears behind the door and leaves you in the silence of the empty bar. It's particularly worse because the quiet helps you think but you don't want to think right now and especially not after Puck's last comment. You know that, you know you don't always have to be tough but you hate feeling weak. You've always hated feeling weak and you wish you never had to feel it ever again. You know that's impossible though, so you don't keep your hopes up for that. All you do is try you're best not to put yourself into situations where you could be targeted. That's why you keep running away from serious conversations; they all talk to you like you're a sad charity case that they want to help fix. You don't need that. You don't need people making you feel inferior and vulnerable and you certainly don't need people kicking you in areas you were already bleeding from.

* * *

The dry area of the spatula taps at her chin as Quinn attempts to remember a few facts from the past. She and Tina are in the kitchen, she standing by the stove and Tina sitting at a stool at the counter flipping through a magazine. Brittany is in the bathroom but only because she wanted to send Santana another text without the suspicious looks from Quinn and Tina peering down at her as if she was their case to investigate.

"So she left on the Monday of that week," Quinn says, eyes shifting to look at the ceiling as she recalls, "You and I were busy working…she didn't come back until Friday and then…wait, what were we talking about?"

Tina chuckles, "You were trying to figure out the last call Santana made to us from Miami…"

"Right…right…" Quinn nods before returning her focus to the stove where she's cooking, "Okay so she called to tell us she arrived safely…"

"Yeah…and then she sent a few texts for the rest of that week to let us know she wasn't lying in a ditch somewhere," Tina adds.

Quinn knots her brow, thinking for further ideas that they could work with. She hits a thought and turns to Tina, "Maybe we could talk to the girls she went with…Brandy and…uhh, what's…what's the other one?"

"Caroline," Tina remembers after some time, "But…I don't think Santana has talked to them since the trip."

"Well, I have Brandy's number," Quinn suggests, "We could call her, see if she knows anything? We met her a few times, I don't think she'd mind."

"Maybe," Tina says, mulling over the thought when Brittany emerges from the bathroom and walks back to her stool by the counter.

Her finger taps at the edge of her phone anxiously as she walks to a stool, eyes shifting over every surface in the room—twice—to avoid thinking about why Santana hasn't responded to her text. There are a few things that deeply upset Brittany, like animal torture and the word 'stupid', but this one has to do with Santana. She doesn't handle the deed of worrying about Santana very well at all and she never has in the past. But it's even worse now, the way she deals with the worry, because Santana isn't her girlfriend anymore. At least when they were together, it was Brittany's job to push around at Santana's business. She can't just call up Santana and ask her anything anymore, it's not her place. Brittany has to do this with patience and it's starting to feel a lot like the ache she endured waiting for Santana to finally admit her feelings in high school.

"Britt?" Tina says suspiciously. Quinn steals a glance away from the stove where she's cooking, eyeing Brittany cautiously too.

"Hmm?" Brittany hums as nonchalantly as she can, head lifting up to meet their wary looks.

"You okay?" Tina asks, chuckling nervously.

"What? Oh sorry, yeah," she says casually, waving off Tina's suspicion with her hand.

"Oh…okay," Tina says understandingly, "You just…seem a little preoccupied."

Brittany pulls her lip between her teeth, chewing hesitantly as she contemplates whether or not to talk about how she feels right now. Trust has several different levels with Brittany. She likes the idea of sharing things with people, even personal information that for others might be more a long the lines of something they would only tell within their circle of friends. But that's the ground level of trust that she establishes with everybody. Then there's another level and it's one that she is more careful about. As of now, she's only ever handed this trust to three people; her little sister, Sam and Santana. Quinn and Tina are great friends and she loves them dearly but they've always been more of Santana's friends than hers so they never quite fell in this category. She's just not sure if they would understand her correctly were she to express her thoughts on their plan.

"Is something wrong?" Quinn wonders, pulling off the pot from the stove and pouring the spaghetti sauce into a large bowl.

Brittany stutters, "Uh…no, w-what were guys talking about?"

Quinn stares briefly in suspicion before answering, "Well…Tina and I know one of the friends that Santana went on the trip with."

"Yeah, we were thinking we could call her," Tina elaborates, "Maybe she could help us out."

Brittany didn't like the sound of that at all. She didn't really know what "find out what happened during Spring Break" meant when Quinn proposed the plan but she didn't think it involved sneaking behind Santana's back and finding out clues through other sources.

"Oh…" Brittany breathes out, frowning.

"You don't think that's a good idea?" Quinn asks, pausing from her cooking.

Brittany chews on her lip, shifting her eyes back and forth between Quinn and Tina, "No…I'm sorry, I don't."

"Why not?" Tina wonders, curious about Brittany's thoughts.

"I didn't…wait…I didn't realize you guys were planning on going _around _Santana," Brittany explains, feeling her stomach erupting in an awfully dreadful manner.

The other two share a look before Quinn speaks up, "...W-We just need a little more, and I don't think Santana is going to be talking any time soon."

Tina contemplates the ideas being tossed around the conversation, finding herself in some doubt, "Maybe we should think about this more."

"Okay, we're not going _around _her," Quinn says, leaving the sauce to cool as she walks over with a plate of cheese and crackers. She sets it own on the counter within everyone's arms reach, "We're just trying to get a better sense…and maybe if we do find out something, it'll be easier to talk to Santana about it."

"But that's _exactly_ what you're doing," Brittany objects, shifting in her chair, "Please don't be offended guys, but I don't like the idea of finding answers about Santana from other people."

"Okay, alright," Quinn sighs, holding out a hand, "We'll rethink calling her. But I just don't think we have time to sit around and let it get worse."

"We can't make her do anything," Brittany states, offended by the way things are unraveling. She didn't realize Quinn and Tina had schemes planned to maneuver around Santana. She would never have agreed if she knew that detail.

Quinn frowns, "And I'm not saying that at all. But for the record, I know I'm not as nice as you both are to her but I think she needs a little push sometimes."

Brittany stiffens, sitting upright in her stool. Quinn finds Brittany's reaction confusing at first before she realizes what she just said. Her mouth hangs ajar momentarily, suddenly regretting the way she phrased her sentence.

"Brittany…I didn't…" Quinn struggles before sighing in defeat, "I wasn't referring to _that_…I mean, you know what I meant."

"This is not something you can push on her," Brittany says defensively, "Just like _that _wasn't something _he_ could push on her."

Tina clears her throat, "Britt…Quinn didn't mean it that way. We weren't thinking about…"

"Yeah, Brittany…" Quinn joins in again, "That came out wrong. I wasn't…what Finn did—"

"Was horrible," Brittany says strongly, "And mean."

"Yes," Quinn says, "It was horrible but I didn't mean it like that. We don't want to push Santana to do anything. We just know that sometimes, she needs a little bit of nudge to get things going."

"Not with this," Brittany says confidently to which both Tina and Quinn frown at, "I know you guys really want to find out what happened…but forcing it out isn't going to do any good."

"You make it sound like we're going to strap her down and torture her, Britt," Quinn says nervously, "I just want Santana to be herself again, and I want to know why she's been so different."

"Yeah, Britt," Tina adds, "We don't want to hurt Santana at all. She's our best friend and we just want her back."

Brittany nods but she doesn't agree with the two; that's not why she's nodding. She's nodding because she understands that this is where the line is drawn between Santana's relationship with those two and Santana's relationship with her. This is where they differ. She's nodding because she understands something they don't.

"I have her eyes memorized," Brittany says softly, "It's what I used to do in high school; memorize her eyes and all the ways she would try to tell me something with them."

Tina and Quinn share a look that makes Brittany a little nervous yet all the more confident about what she's talking about. Brittany isn't afraid to admit that she knows Santana better than both of them do.

"And there was this one look that kept showing up all the time," Brittany continues, pulling up that image in her head, "All Santana ever did was look at me with those eyes, like she was terrified but too proud to admit it."

Brittany feels her heart pick up its pace in her chest just thinking about the memory. The knot in her stomach is more than enough to show her how much she misses being able to stare at Santana, into Santana, for as long as she wanted.

"When we started dating, it didn't come around so often but there were still times," Brittany continues, "And then _he_…well, that happened and it all came rushing back."

Tina stays silent, sinking into her chair while Quinn lowers her eyes, feeling a wave of guilt wash over her briefly. Brittany is not usually an intimidating person but when she talks about Santana, when her voice thickens with the love she has for that girl, she can be so powerful with words that it's enough to rip the ones right out of Quinn's and Tina's mouth.

"I know you're worried and all but…" Brittany says firmly, "You can't do it this way. Not when she has those same eyes again."

The room stays quiet for a little longer as everyone takes a moment to collect their thoughts and decide their position in this plan.

"Okay," Quinn says cooperatively, "Okay...I guess we don't know Santana as well as you do...but what are our options here? We can't just wait around."

"Going behind her back to find answers won't be an option," Brittany decides for the three of them, "Forcing her to confess will be the last thing I let happen."

"I think what Quinn's trying to say, Britt," Tina interjects, attempting to calm the tension in the room, "…is that…if we keep ignoring and let Santana be, chances are she's just going to keep doing what she's doing…whatever that is."

Brittany knows how they feel but she still doesn't believe that taking this approach is going to result in the best possible outcome. She knows what her decision is and she's going to stick to it, but she would have liked it if they were on her side too.

"Then I don't want to be a part of this," Brittany confesses, sitting upright. Tina and Quinn watch her movements, eyes widening in confusion.

"What?" Quinn says, puzzled.

"I don't like hiding things from Santana," Brittany explains, "And…I won't let you make her do something she's not ready to do."

"So what do you suggest?" Tina asks Brittany civilly, shooting a quick glance at Quinn to tell her she should be considerate of new approaches.

"Let me try…" Brittany proposes.

"Try what?" Quinn asks, leaning forward.

"Talking to her about it," Brittany answers, "I mean…that was the whole reason you called me, wasn't it?

Quinn looks over at Tina, remembering that they had intended on Brittany being the one to get Santana out of her shell and talking again.

"You even said so yourself, Quinn," Brittany reminds them all, "She trusts me and she's right to because I'm not going to let her down."

The other two both lower their heads with their eyes dropping to their hands, or somewhere below them, guiltily for having steered so far from their initial plan.

"Look, Santana is…special," Brittany continues, attaching weight to her words, "She works differently to anybody I've ever met. I may not know everything about her but I know a lot and this whole plan you have, it's not right. She's going to end up worse."

Brittany finishes strongly, forcing Quinn and Tina to rethink their whole approach towards the situation. They've been so caught up in trying to find the truth, when really they shouldn't be trying to find anything. They should be building an environment that proves safe enough for Santana to feel like she can start talking again. Quinn and Tina share a look of shame because Brittany is right about it being the wrong way to go about understanding what happened to Santana. Maybe they'd get their confession but what would that have been worth when the process of extracting the details meant putting Santana in an even greater state of distress?

"You know what, you're right," Tina says, placing her hands flat on the counter, "We shouldn't be trying to get it out of Santana before she's ready."

Brittany smiles weakly before both she and Tina glance over to Quinn who stands uncertain. Quinn has her pride, very much like Santana has hers, and she doesn't like to be wrong. She's very passionate about her way of doing things and while that can be a good thing, it can also be unhealthy.

"Yeah," Quinn finally nods, lowering her voice to a quiet volume, "Of course, we don't…we don't want to hurt Santana."

"Thank you," Brittany says gratefully, "Just give her time."

* * *

You pull your card out of the slot and punch out from your shift at 8:30pm. Since you hadn't been able to use the locker room tonight, checking out is the last thing you have to do before you can go home. You may work Sundays but you don't work as late as the rest of the week. Not many interesting people come to the on this night and there's rarely any tips so three hours is about as much as you can stand. You're really tired.

In fact, you've noticed that about yourself—how quickly you went from having energy to having none at all. You suspect that it's the drop from the drugs, since you did take a dose before leaving the apartment. When you're high, you're way up there but when it wears off it feels like a black hole sucking every particle of energy out of your body. Like right now, your joints hurt and your eyes can barely stay open. The coke is screwing around with your system, shifting the balance of your energy levels.

Your hand pats your jean pocket to feel for your phone and pull it out once you find it. There's a new message, sent about an hour and half ago, and it's from Brittany. You remember that you never replied to her and that sends a pinch to your gut.

As you turn around and start to leave, you swipe open your phone and read the message.

_I miss you :) – Brittany. _

She starts the flutter again, the same kind you've been feeling for god knows how long now. It feels like tiny creatures crawling around the perimeter of your stomach, making you both nervous and happy at the same time. Happy. There's a word you haven't used in a while. You're not going to deny it, that she makes you just a little bit happier, because she's Brittany and that's always been how it works around her.

"Ey, Santana," someone calls out for you and you glance up from the screen, brow lifting when you see one of your coworkers making her way towards you. This one is Lisa whom you quite like because she minds her own business but has that tough mama vibe. You don't know why you love that, it just gets you every time.

When she's close enough, she leans in, "You hittin' tonight?"

You inhale deeply, eyes falling to reread the message Brittany sent you. You could go with Lisa, take another hit and then wait it out somewhere. You think you almost say yes, the word tiptoeing to the edge of your tongue, until you feel a drop in your stomach. It weighs you down even further and you tell yourself that you can't, not tonight. You can barely keep your knees locked.

"No," you finally, "No…I'm passing tonight."

"Alright," she shrugs casually, stepping backwards with a finger pointing at you, "You get home safe. I don't wanna drive by and find your ass on the street."

You roll your eyes with a nod, before exhaling and feeling how low your body sinks. You take one more look at the text, read over the words and then lock the phone again, sliding it back into your pocket. When you step outside, you find that it's cold so you fold your over your chest tightly. The breeze and the heaviness of your body make the walk home all the more difficult. You're lucky you haven't winded off into the streets or stepped in the way of a moving truck yet.

Something is wrong and you think you know but you don't want to say it. You're tired, weak and you feel like your muscles have swelled twice their size and stiffened, like dry clay underneath your skin. It's the first time you've ever felt an effect this strong before, hitting your entire system like a power cut at heart of your body.

Finally, after what seems like hours, you reach your block and step up to your apartment complex. You let yourself in and drag a limp body up the stairs. At one point, you don't even notice that you're walking because you can't feel your legs anymore. They're moving, you can see each foot hit the next step up, but you feel separated from that action, like instead they are a pair of phantom legs. You reach your floor eventually and make your way to your apartment, shuffling for the keys in your handbag. Once you get there, it takes you a little longer than usual to stick the key in and unlock it. Everything feels so slow and lagging, too much so to ignore now.

As you step in, you hear laughter but it doesn't process until you've lifted up and seen it for yourself. The three of them sit there on the couch, Quinn and Tina with a glass of wine in their hand and Brittany with a bottle of beer. You know if you were more responsive, you would have paid more attention to how many times you've come home to find her there.

"Santana," Tina says happily, "You're home."

You press your lips together, mustering all the effort to keep your eyes open to their normal standard. Brittany's eyes focus on you the entire time you spend walking in and turning to the kitchen for a bottle of water. When you lean down and reach in, the cool air startles you and sends a shudder shooting down your spine.

"How was work?" Tina asks again, and you don't really notice that she's the only one speaking to you.

You stand up, close the fridge and turn around, twisting the bottle open, "Mhm…fine."

"That's good," Tina says before sneaking Quinn and Brittany a look. Again, if you were more aware of your surroundings, you would have paid more attention to that but since you're practically asleep, nothing really processes.

"I'm…uh…" you slowly say, blinking hardly to keep your eyes open, "I'm gonna…go to bed."

Your eyes shift to Brittany and linger there while she stares back, blinking slowly at you. Any longer and they'll notice, so you clear your throat and try to cover it up.

"You look tired," Quinn finally comments but the moment when you glance up at each other is harsh because you remember what happened the last time you were together. She clears her throat, "You should get some sleep."

You nod, thinking that idea of sleep sounds extremely appealing right now. Your eyes move back to Brittany's and find that she's not frowning but she's not smiling either. She's looking at you in a way that you can't really understand right now because you're not thinking hard enough, but you've seen it before. You think she knows something.

It pops into your head, _I miss you_, and suddenly all you want to do is tell her you miss her too. If Tina and Quinn weren't sitting right there, maybe you would. But they are and you're not that confident to come out and say it to them yet.

After a small, uncomfortable silence, you move from your position and drag yourself towards your room. Once you're in, and the door shuts behind you, your body almost gives in and slumps. You take off your bag and hang it over the chair at your desk. Your eyes suddenly scan over a big patch of red but you don't understand what it is until you squint and lean in.

Your eyes widen when you register the bloody towel and reach for it, realizing that you had forgotten to hide it somewhere. You know Quinn and Tina don't come into your room but still, it reminds you of earlier and suddenly you're afraid. You walk over to the hamper and lift up some of the clothes that are already there, throwing the dirty crimson colored cloth in and then placing those clothes back on top. It's gone now, you can't see it anymore.

You take off your shirt and jeans, though it requires a lot more time and effort than usual, and replace them with sweats and a baggy sleeveless. By now, you can barely see. Your vision is blurry and slanted, making it difficult to walk straight to your bed. You swallow roughly, stopping yourself just as you're about to sit down because you need water. Your throat feels like a desert, deprived of life, all grainy and rough.

The water bottle doesn't come into view when you scan the room. You can't find it and you're so confused because you feel like you just had it in your hands. It occurs to you that you might have left it outside, but the idea of having to walk back out makes you sigh in exhaustion. You really need that water, though, and…well, you wouldn't mind seeing her again.

The door opens slowly and you step out, foot in front of the other. You identify the water bottle on the counter before you realize that Quinn, Tina and Brittany are all standing up from the couch as if their night is over. You glance over and lock eyes with Brittany, watching her watching you. She makes you nervous, even in this hazy state you're in, and you can still feel the fluttery reaction. It's just ten times slower now.

You've taken the steps over to the counter and the cool condensation hits your palm when you reach to retrieve the drink, bringing it close to your chest as you turn around to them.

"Well," Tina huffs, "We're going to bed."

"Yup," Quinn says too, yawning, "Brittany, will you get home safely?"

At that, you peer up at her as you clench the water bottle a little tighter in your hand. She hesitates for a moment before smiling weakly at Quinn.

"Yeah, I'm good," she responds and you both watch as Tina and Quinn walk towards their bedrooms.

"Night guys," Tina says before disappearing behind her door. Quinn says something similar before she heads off too but you don't put the effort together to respond to either of them.

It's just the two of you now, standing across from each other on opposite sides of the apartment. She presses her lips together before starting to move out of the living room. You start to move too, walking slowly towards your bedroom. You don't know if she's going to say anything, but the pounding at your chest tells you that you want her too.

She must have known that too.

"Santana," she says softly with a hand coming out to place on your forearm, stopping you, "Can we…talk?"

You peer up at her, feeling your eyes put on so much more weight and you almost feel like it did that on purpose. You feel like your body is trying to get you caught, get you in trouble by making it obvious that something clearly isn't right anymore. You push through it and you keep your gaze with her, finding that she's sparking a few other impulses inside you, ones like a skip in your heartbeat every now and then or one of those tiny critters bumping into the edge of your stomach. She's created an imbalance in you now where some parts are moving a little faster and other parts aren't moving at all.

"Or are you…" she hesitates once she's had a good look at you, "…n-never mind, you look tired. I guess…um, I should…go."

Brittany breaks the eye contact first and starts to turn but wait, no, you don't want her to go. Your hand comes up and reaches for hers, catching it on time which surprises you because your hand-eye coordination is completely impaired at the moment. She pauses and glances back at you, waiting for you to say something. You can't, though, because your throat has physically dried out like prune and you're not sure whether a voice can come through without drinking some water first. You're afraid to try and have the sound come out all hoarse and grainy, so you adjust your hand and grip hers tighter. You tug and start walking towards your bedroom. She follows.

You let her in first, stepping aside so she can walk past. She's never been this far before and you think it makes you more nervous than it makes her.

You push the door shut and slowly make your way towards the bed, eyes stealing towards your desk to make sure that there's nothing suspicious there. You're clear but you know that the baggie is in your handbag and you actually hate the thought of having it so close when she's around.

Needing it desperately, you take a sip of water and feel the liquid sooth the drought in your throat. As you drink, you let your eyes wander off a little to watch as she takes a bit of time to look around before turning and facing you. She stands just at the foot of your bed, waiting.

You don't realize how much you drank until you place the bottle on your desk and find that it's three quarters empty. Your eyes widen momentarily in shock before you force yourself to forget about it and draw the focus back to her. It's smoother in your throat now and you think you can say something.

"Hi," you say softly, internally groaning because you couldn't think of anything better to say.

She smiles gently, "Hi."

You take a step towards her, and then another step, and then another one, and before you know it you're only a two or three feet away. She looks down at you, eyes so focused and burning into yours until they shift lower and she frowns.

"Aren't you cold?" she murmurs.

"Hmm?" you hum confusedly, glancing down to find that you _are _wearing a sleeveless shirt in November. Suddenly you do feel chilly, a shiver running across your skin, but you wonder if the weather has anything to do with it.

She giggles quietly and your mind temporarily blanks because of the sound. You allow time to listen, to admire the way she laughs, even though she's laughing at your inability to dress appropriately for the temperature. You're a little sloppy, slow and sluggish to an unusual extent tonight. This could be dangerous, _if _she decides to perceive it as something suspicious.

"Here," she says before eliminating more distance between you and her. She takes the jacket that was draped across her arm off and airs it out. Brittany twists it and reaches around you to bring the jacket over your shoulders. You immediately feel the warmth as well as her fragrance and it makes you want to melt right down into a puddle on the floor.

When you peer up at her, you notice how her eyes are focused on fixing the jacket onto you a little more securely. You swear that she's the kind of girl you could watch her for so long and never be bored. She lets her hands linger at your chest, pressing against you lightly, before she lifts up to meet your eyes. The gaze between you says everything and nothing because you blank out but you're aware that it was only because of how you still feel about her.

She shakes it off seconds later and regains her sense of reality, clearing her throat as she steps backwards, "Better?"

"Thanks," you say just above a whisper.

"No problem," she says breathlessly.

Air keeps slipping from your lungs, like water slips through fingers, and it becomes difficult to breathe steadily. You inhale and exhale in uneven patterns because sometimes she takes a little bit of you but sometimes she takes everything. Either way, she's taking your breath away.

You continue to peer up at her, finding that you're quite content to forget about your body—and the rest of the world—and stare for as long as she lets you. Brittany gazes back, with eyes blue as ever that come down to mix with your brown so harmoniously. When something fits with us so perfectly, it's easy to let it consume us whole. You used to be able to let go and fall into her completely but you can't anymore. Your thoughts are now too thick and burdening that they only settle for giving bits and pieces of you to her.

Her lips part to speak quietly, "Did you get my messages?"

You actually have to listen to what she asked you this time rather than just listen to the melody of her voice and how it sings to you. When she talks, the greater part part of you feels at ease and comfortable. She is a lullaby written specifically for and dedicated to you. Unfortunately, there is a remaining part of you that is less relaxed and it reminds you about having never replied to her texts and most likely kept her worried all evening.

"I…" you struggle, "I did, sorry. I-I was going—"

"Don't worry," she says softly with a smile that makes your chest swell. You breathe in sharply at her response.

She smiles affectionately, peering down at you in the same way she used to when you were in high school. You don't nor have you ever believed in love at first sight but you do believe that the eyes can hold more emotion than any other form of expression. They don't always, but they can and right now, staring into her beautiful blue, they do. You're not going to say it out loud yet, or even confirm it, but you know you're still in love with her. The problem with admitting it is that once an idea becomes a part of the real world, once another ear has heard the words you've uttered, you can't take them back nor can you make them unheard. And the problem you face with _that _isn't the fear of being wrong about your feelings but rather the fear of being absolutely right.

"But are you…" she asks, barely a whisper, "…okay?"

You blink slowly and try to encourage a voice up your throat to answer her. The reason you didn't reply to her was because you couldn't lie about not being okay. Little has changed about your current feelings since you received her text. You're still not okay but she'll worry more if you confess to that. You know it will give her a reason to stay and as much as you want that for yourself—Brittany to stay with you—it all comes down to one problem. You want Brittany to want you but you don't want her to want this version of you.

Your lips part but instead of words, you let out a breath. Suddenly she reaches up and plays with one of the strings on the jacket she put on you, stepping a little closer as she coos.

"Okay…" she says understandingly, "You don't have to answer that."

The confusion appears on your face with the knotting of your brow as you look up at her again. Brittany merely smiles at you and shakes her head lightly.

"We don't have to talk about that," she murmurs.

Ironically enough, every time Brittany tells you that you don't have to talk about something, you suddenly want to blurt it all out. You want to tell her everything that's happened in the past few months. How does she do that? You've been constantly running away for a while now, like all you want is a bigger field, a bigger world where there are more hiding places and shadows to duck into and then Brittany shows up and gives you that space. She paints an entirely new canvas just for you but all you can think about is how maybe you don't want all that space anymore. Maybe you'd rather stop and catch your breath.

"Was there…" you finally start to ask, "…something you _did _want to talk about?"

Brittany arches her brow, softening the features on her face as she contemplates her answer. You aren't too sure what is going to happen, or what is even happening right now, but it's difficult to pull away now that you're already close again. She takes a step back and sits herself down on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the edge tighter than she probably needs to.

"Not really," she admits, peering up at you, "I just wanted to talk to you."

You like the sound of that. Your stomach and heart do too with the way one flutters nervously and the other beats passionately. Eventually, you shift so that you've occupied the space on the bed next to her, keeping hold of the jacket so it stays wrapped around you still. Brittany smiled when she realized you were moving to sit beside her and that flushed look still lingering on her face makes you want to kiss her. Really, really kiss her. That thought also terrifies you, so you're in a little bit of a struggle with desires.

"How…are you?" you ask softly, shifting backwards on the bed so you can bring your feet up and face her more interactively. When she notices what you're doing, she follows the idea and turns to you too. You're both sitting cross legged on your bed now, a situation you really didn't expect yourself to be in tonight.

"I'm good," she responds with a kind smile. Her gentle tone tells you that she knows you would have been hurt if she had said it too enthusiastically. It's ridiculous but you honestly would have. Of course you want more than anything for Brittany to be happy but whatever happens in the future, it will always sting if you have to hear that she's happy without you.

You nod and speak quietly, "Good, that's…good."

She eyes you carefully for the time being but you know she's doing more than just looking. She's searching you, like she always did every time your eyes would cross paths. Sometimes you wonder whether it has become a natural tendency of hers, whether she doesn't have to remind herself how to look at you anymore because it happens automatically, instinctively. You wonder whether it's been that way for while.

Her head tilts a little to the side and you become nervous again, eyes breaking away from her direct gaze when she asks, "What about you, Santana?"

You knew that was coming but you don't have any reply prepared for her, "Um…"

The struggling that you do to answer her question, her simple and easy question, must make it obvious that you're hiding several issues and fears behind this exterior. Brittany _has _to know that by now. She's not stupid, not one little bit, and you know very well that she probably had you figured out the moment she saw you again for the first time last week.

Just as you started to panic and almost resorted to telling her a lie, you glance at her and watch how she exhales into a smile. It confuses you the way she keeps reacting to your lack of response. Most people would be halfway out the door by now since you haven't exactly been contributing much to the conversation. Then again, how could you even think about comparing Brittany to most people? Clearly, she's not.

"I got a baby goldfish yesterday," she says spontaneously, scrunching her nose adorably.

You frown faintly, puzzled with the sudden topic you're now discussing. Had you blanked out for a while to only now just snap back into an ongoing conversation or did she really just spring that one out of nowhere?

"I named him Pebbles," Brittany continues with a smile, "…because he kind of looks like a tiny pebble with flippers…except orange."

It suddenly occurs to you what she's doing. You've been eyeing her strangely because you hadn't understood why she brought up something so irrelevant, but it makes sense now. You didn't even have to ask her to do this, change subjects, but she figured it out on her own that that was what you wanted. As you breathe out steadily, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you can swear it's because you might be falling in love with her all over again.

"Anyways," Brittany chuckles adorably, "He's just swims…all day long. Like Dori, from Finding Nemo. He just keeps swimming."

There so much lust and admiration and passion floating through your system right now that you can barely focus on what she's saying anymore. The way you've been struck is as if love is a matter that seeped into your skin from her body to yours, joining the flow of your blood to travel out towards every part of you there is. This is dangerous, but you just don't care right now. You take a deep breath, eyes blinking slowly like you're mesmerized by everything that sits in front of you, all of her. She reads your face and knows that what you want is for her to keep talking.

Brittany smiles warmly, "And he likes eating the bigger fish food pieces before the smaller ones…but I guess that makes sense because they're probably a lot tastier, wouldn't you think?"

You feel a tug at the corner of your lips and let it pull lightly. You keep blinking slowly every once in a while, drowning in how strongly you feel for her, because she's everything to you. Eventually, you nod and watch how Brittany's face lights up when she notices you responded. If you can still make her smile, maybe you aren't completely hopeless. That has to count for something right? Getting her to smile so beautifully?

"So that's what I spent pretty much my entire afternoon doing yesterday," she says with a giggle, "Feeding my baby goldfish named Pebbles."

Something pushes at your throat and you realize it's your voice, "He's going to get fat."

Brittany laughs, bending forward as she shakes her head in agreement, "He probably will."

This time, you don't fight the tug and let the smile grow across your lips instead. You keep watching her, admiring the details of her perfect nature like she's a treasure, maybe even _your _treasure.

"I'll put him on Atkins," she says, finishing off her laugh as she settles into that gentle smile again.

She finally looks back up at you and you immediately notice the way she pauses, stunned by the smile on your own face. You let it falter slightly, which you know will disappoint her, but you hadn't realized you were smiling so big until she looked at you. You hate that you stop yourself from feeling what you truly feel because that's not how it's supposed to work. You've been through this before, you've hidden feelings from her, but you got through it. Sometimes, it's hard to believe that there was a time when you let yourself love Brittany and not just in the comfort of your bedrooms but the rest of the world too. Knowing that, knowing you were once in a place where you weren't so scared makes you upset. How did you manage to let yourself stumble all the way back to who you used to be when you were seventeen and terrified of being in love with your best friend?

Brittany sucks in a breath, holding it briefly while she continues to gaze at you affectionately. You don't actually know what that means and you're a little anxious now.

"What?" you say nervously, lowering your head to hide but keeping your eyes on her.

She barely shakes her head for a response, too caught up in some other feeling perhaps, "Sorry…you're just…"

Your heart is beating like crazy right now, bouncing around inside your chest. There's an itch underneath your skin that you just can't help and it's scratching towards Brittany.

She lets out in a shaky breath and you can tell she just became extremely nervous, "…really pretty."

If your heart wasn't going insane before then it definitely is now. Brittany can't say this type of thing to you, expect that you'll thank her and have that be the end of it. You've never been able to control the way your insides leap towards Brittany like they're trying to wrap around her themselves when she compliments you in any way or form. Your breaths quicken right on cue.

Brittany reaches out and takes your hand in hers, cooing softly, "…beautiful, I mean."

You glance down at your joined fingers, regretting that idea seconds later because god, you love the way her hand feels and you love looking at your palms pressed together. The beating becomes so vigorous that it begins to feel like your chest is a room and she just set off several packs of fireworks in it, all at once. It's overwhelming and you're scared with how strongly you feel. You didn't realize it was still this passionate inside you. You knew you were still in love with her but you thought with the time you've spent apart that maybe it was possible that your love for her was a little dry and parched. Whatever is pumping through your veins right now, though, is not of that nature at all. It's wet and hungry and determined. It wants what it wants and you're afraid that you might not be able to stop it.

You peer up at her, eyes filling with panic because you weren't exactly prepared to feel so much so soon. You know how we can always expect to feel a certain way about something but we can never really know for sure until it happens? You should have taken the time to remember that about life because now you're alarmed with how intense your feelings actually are.

"Hey..." she murmurs, shifting closer to you as you let out a small gasp.

She searches you momentarily, again like she always does, and your stomach does a flip. For now, you have to focus on calming your breathing pattern. Her fingers start to trace smooth circles on the back of you hand and it immediately soothes you, her touch dreaming up serenity inside your system. You're still shaky but not as significantly as you had been moments earlier and it's mostly due to the fact that your heart doesn't feel like it'll explode anymore. The thumps are still fierce and your breathing is still uneven but you don't feel drenched in chaotic reactions. And when you shift a little closer too, both of your heads lower, eyes falling to the bed so that your foreheads can rest against each other.

Brittany and you linger there momentarily, stealing each other's air because you're that close now. You can feel her presence in your body, that beautiful comfort she still and always has offered. You feel she grips your hand a little tighter because she's about to move it, eventually guiding you to press a palm against her chest. When you come in contact, your skin to her skin, you feel another heartbeat that triggers a wave of tranquility to wash over you. Her pounds transfer onto your skin, sending waves from her body to yours like secret messages sent back and forth between two lovers. You listen carefully, counting off her rhythm so you can try to match yours with it. Brittany's heart is beating quickly but its under control. It's confident and there's a clear difference between you and her. She's not afraid to love you but, even though you've done this all before, you still are.

"You know that, right?" she whispers breathlessly, referring to the comment she made earlier.

Her words draw you in and you impulsively tilt your head to the side, feeling the passion in the air intensify greatly. You linger in front of her mouth, almost frozen because you shouldn't kiss her but you want to but you can't. Soon enough, your thoughts dissolve completely because Brittany leans in and presses her lips against yours. The moment the gap between you and her closes, your eyes shut tightly. Her lips are the smoothest lips you've ever felt, but you already knew that. Her taste is the best craving you've ever had, but you already knew that too.

You lean further into her, your body lifting up slightly because something about the moment is dangerously addictive. Her jacket that was draped over your shoulders falls off and your exposed, feeling a chill glaze over your bare skin. Brittany's hands reach up and rest at your neck, but you keep one of yours still pressed against her heart. She pulls you in and only seconds later you feel a beat smash hard against your chest, temporarily paralyzing your entire response system. Everything shouts for you to stay exactly where you are because that jerky response felt like a warning. Another smash occurs and it pushes your pulse up to the bottom of your throat, sending your panic on a fit.

You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be kissing her. Stop. Your eyes clench shut even tighter as the voice echoes hauntingly in your thoughts. The screams only get louder and harsher in your head, scolding you for kissing her. You haven't taken a breath in a while and you feel like you're going to need one soon. You've triggered chaos in your entire system and now every process feels deprived and struggling to function properly. This isn't how kisses with her used to feel. Well, maybe before you started dating her but never like this, never this...terrifying. It's baffling because her touch is soft as anything yet you wince because there's a bloody battle inside you. Her lips feel so right but the kiss feels so wrong because you weren't ready for this, you're _not_ ready for this.

You're a complete mess, half of you eager to gain more friction while the other half afraid to even think about touching her. The confusion causes you to fist the material of her shirt at her chest, finding that you need something to hold onto. Being so drastically torn between wanting to kiss her and wanted to run away makes you squirm and suddenly Brittany stiffens. Her hands stop roaming your neck because she's noticed something about you now and starts to pull away. You both break away from the kiss to exhale and suck in a desperate breath, but only your eyes remain closed. In fact, they're shut so tight right now that the tiny dots start to splatter against the darkness.

"Santana…" she breathes out worriedly, probably taking a good look at your clenched eyes and trembling lips.

"I c-ca...n't…" you choke out instantly, shaking your head and lowering it so you can open your eyes to your hands rather than to her. The hand that was clenching her shirt in a fist loosens and spreads back out so your palm is pressed against her heart again. Although, it's barely a touch anymore because your hand makes a feeble attempt to stay there, but the weakness in you causes you to let it drop slowly from her chest.

"Okay…okay," she hushes, hands reaching around you to find her jacket on the bed to bring it back around your shoulders, "Shh…"

"I-I'm s..sorry," you say, gasping before the lump shoots straight up your throat and escapes with a sob cracking from your lips.

"It's okay," Brittany whispers, tugging on the material of the jacket to bring you closer and your foreheads back together, "You're okay…we don't have to, I'm sorry…We don't have to."

A tear burns down the side of your face, triggering another wave of them to start bleeding from your eyes. You start to cry quietly, not too roughly, and in a way it feels much more heartbreaking this way. Listening to the silent sobbing, breaths pushing in and out of your lungs, makes you sound so weak and vulnerable and sad. The only reason you haven't fallen apart completely yet is because she's got you in her hands. Brittany has you and in the end, that's the difference between breaking down and staying together. You're not in one piece, most definitely not, but you're not shattered yet, even though you might as well be dangling on your last thread.

"Hey…hey," she coos softly, pulling away to see you, "Look at me."

She applies a little pressure to lift up your face so you're not hiding anymore. Her head tilts down to meet you half way and catches your eyes. Hers look red and glossy, like she might be crying too, but then she smiles and you pour all your focus into that small twitch of the lips. They curve up into a watery smile, her face softening when you finally meet. The gaze burns harshly in your eyes, even with the blurriness from tears.

"It's me…" she reminds you in another whisper, "It's just me…"

You swallow roughly, fighting to push that lump back down. Her words reach you so gently that it almost restores all the rushed and chaotic processes back to their standards. You suck in a few sharp breaths, _gasps _more like, and your body still trembles lightly, but she's done something to you. Maybe it was what she said, _it's me_, because now you peer up at her through teary eyes and realize the significance of that. It's not Brittany, the girl you left back in Lima anymore like how you've thought of her for the past few days now. No. It's Brittany, the girl you met when you were just a kid but also the girl you've loved since you can remember. And she staring into you right now, with a lot more love and lust than you thought could possibly fit in one's eyes and you can't believe it took this long to get here.

"Britt…" you breathe out, barely a sound, and she smiles again with a gentle, slow nod.

You found her. There's so much more that you have to consider, to discuss, to confess and talk to her about; there's even so much that you still have to establish with yourself, but you'll think about that tomorrow because tonight, you found her. More importantly, tonight, she found you.

* * *

**A/N: Chapters are getting longer in length now eep :) Title is from the song You Found Me by The Fray.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: To Have and To Hold**

There is warmth bundled around you comfortably, but too satisfying to be the art of a blanket. Your breathing pattern seems natural again, inhaling and exhaling at the speed of, perhaps, the ticking of a clock, slow and steady. It's the first time you've woken up feeling so light, so free from any burden or chains that may tie you down to earth. As your eyes blink open, you gradually begin to realize why this morning is so different.

The first thing you see is your bedside table and the window, thin rays of light seeping through the curtains. As you spend a few moments there lying on your side, adjusting to the brightness and into the state of being awake, you feel a breath blow out onto your neck. Shivers spark all over your body, from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You freeze momentarily, muscles stiffening and your breath holding because you aren't entirely sure where it came from. You don't feel alone in this room and certainly not alone on this bed. You think a little harder, but forcing your brain to work so early in the morning is difficult for you since you're hardly awake at this time. You think it must be around seven or eight o'clock given the small amount of grey sky you can see outside. Suddenly, the breath comes back again—floating across your skin—and triggers the entire night back into your head.

Brittany. She must be sleeping behind you. Last night is still blurry but you remember talking to her, you remember…kissing her, you even remember spending the next twenty minutes with her arms wrapped around your body and your head buried into her shoulder. You remember the beat of her heart, how calm it was because she was trying everything she could to help you, to keep you steady and breathing. It must have been there, during the embrace, where your last thought slipped away into sleep. Sleep. You must have fallen asleep in her arms and she must have stayed. Stay. She stayed.

You expect it to feel wrong, scary even, and you believe that in any second now you're going to start panicking. It comes slowly, the small rush of poisonous adrenaline, but you're surprised with how tame it seems. It keeps you in a greater state of fear now because you're anticipating something to happen, something you can't prepare for. Between these moments of thought, you realize something. If you're not scared about this, you're scared about something else. You're always scared, all the time, and no matter what you do, there will always be something terrifying ready to pounce at you when it gets the chance. You're a walking target, that's what you feel like. Every moment is dangerous. You're always trembling. It makes sense. You're always scared and in the times that you actually notice it, like the kiss—it isn't that you're _becoming _terrified after being okay, it's that you're _triggering_ the fear that was already woven into your system, like throwing gas on an already burning flame.

She stirs suddenly, her body shifting behind you. Your heart quickens in your chest and the blood rushes a little too quickly to your brain that you feel slightly light headed. She's close and that makes you nervous, but you know something. You know that the warmth and comfort you felt when you woke up was because she was lying beside you. You're not going to push her away; you have to stop trying to isolate yourself. Brittany is meant for you, she was made for you. You were made for her. She is the only person who gives you not only what you never asked for and secretly wanted but also what you never even thought was possible for someone to have. She gives you everything and you can't turn her away, not anymore. So although you're terrified right now, trembling in the fear of being close to her again, to anyone again, you know that she's not going to hurt you. That's what you need right now; reassurance that she's _not _going to hurt you.

The fear won't go away but you can try to make the anxiety disappear as much as possible. You try something, hoping that it will work and that you'll be able to lie here a little more peacefully. You close your eyes again and you count to five. One; your heart skips a few beats. Two; breathe in. Three; breathe out. Four; you straighten out, stretching your legs longer. Five; you inhale deeply and start to move. You shift back, back, back until you collide with her chest. Your bodies are aligned now and the contact spreads warmth across your back first before the rest of your body. You worry that it might send you into a fit, chase the beats in your chest to a faster speed, make your head spin, but it doesn't. None of that happens right now and you realize that none of that might ever happen if you have her like this. If she's close to you, if she's here, maybe she can stop those reactions; hinder them to their devastating effect.

With enough contemplation, you finally decide to loosen your muscles, unclench your fists, let out that breath, and sink into the mattress. Naturally, she moves against you, causing your breath to suck back momentarily to wait out the movements and avoid waking her. In the middle of your thoughts, you feel what you expect is her arm reaching out and draping over the side of your lower stomach. The new touch tingles against your skin and you open your eyes once again. You glance down to find her hand hanging in front of your stomach, resting there casually like you and Brittany have been doing this for ages. You stare at it briefly, assessing its nature and position. Eyes fall over her nails, her fingers, the back of her hand, tracing every line that you can make out from where your head is. The arm that you aren't sleeping on comes down and rests on top of hers that drapes across your body. It feels like electricity at first, sparks and tingles from skin to skin contact, but then it just feels right. You slide it down even more so that your palm moves onto the back of her hand. You place your fingers in between the spaces of hers and clench them, watching how easily your hands fit together to become a joined entity.

It takes a moment but soon enough, you feel her grip tighten so her fist clenches too and captures your fingers. This time she shifts forward, pressing your bodies together as a hot breath hovers above your neck. You close your eyes and guide her arm further around you so she's holding you tighter. You bring your joined hands near to your chest and feel her scoot as close as possible, willingly wrapping you up in her arms. Whether she's awake or drenched in sleepy state of consciousness you aren't too sure, but it doesn't matter. You may be scared but you're protected. You feel safe, surrounded by her comfort, and you don't want her to go anywhere. You want this to last.

And it does. It lasts for a while. You almost fall asleep again because you can listen to her breaths in your ear, the steady timed inhales and exhales that sneak and escape from her mouth. The reason you don't, though, is because you feel her shift again after some time of lying completely still. Your eyes blink open narrowly, but you freeze when you feel a kiss being placed on your bare shoulder. Her lips linger there and you stay stiff until she pulls them away, taking with her the shock that paralyzed you and replacing it with the sensation of lust washing over you like a pool of warm, bubbly water. You sigh out of comfort but it comes out a little more nervously than you had hoped.

Her fingers wiggle and it's only now that you realize how tightly you were gripping your joined hands at your chest, like clinging onto her to avoid falling or floating away. You loosen the hold but only so much that you still keep her connected and close to you.

"San…" she whispers quietly.

Brittany's voice coos into your ear so soothingly that you forget to answer her. Her tone melts you like a small downward path of warm water trickling over your body, and you fall a little further.

"Santana..." she tries again softly and this time you make the effort to respond.

You shift lightly and hum, "Mmm…"

"I have class," she murmurs, reaching her thumb around to stroke yours.

More than anything you want her to stay with you but you can't ask her to. You don't want her to skip class for you nor do you plan on dragging her down in this mess of yours. All you've ever wanted for Brittany to be is happy and the only reason you haven't jumped at the chance with her now is because you're afraid you might not make that happen. It is one thing for Brittany to be unhappy but it's something else entirely if she's unhappy because of you. You should know you're silly to think this way because you've done it before—made her happy—so you know its possible, but this isn't high school anymore and you are not the same person you were two or some years ago. Being with her has different consequences now.

Finally, knowing what you have to do, you open your eyes and twist. You don't come fully to lie on your back but the most of your upper half turns far enough so that you can see her. She shifts to prop her head up with her other arm, because one of hers and one of yours are still joined tightly. Her eyes are watching something lower down in between you when you come to look at her, but then she blinks and meets you. You don't even think skies have reached the kind of blue that her eyes hold. Sometimes you wonder whether people see how beautiful she is when they look at her, if they see her the way you do. She peers at you, eyebrows lifted slightly to make her the most adorable thing you've ever laid eyes on. At the same time, her gaze and slightly ruffled hair makes her the most stunning thing you've ever laid eyes on. Okay…you really, _really, __**really**_love her.

Her lips part and you almost gasp quietly from the beat your heart just tripped on, "…unless you…"

She hesitates momentarily, eyes burrowing into yours before finishing off her sentence, "…unless you want me to stay."

You breathe out heavily, blinking slowly at her because your mind has become a little foggy from the amount of lust building up in your system. It feels like you can no longer think too hard or too much because you've simplified down to a body in love and that's all you are right now.

You shake your head, and whisper, "No…no, you should…go to class."

She searches you briefly, checking to see whether you're using that as a mechanism to push her away because you're scared. The only reason Brittany agrees to leave and takes your answer as the truth is because, well, you're not pushing her away this time. You need her to go to class, it's her life. You can't spend every minute of every day with her, thought you may want to, because again, things are different. She has her life and you certainly have yours. It will take more than one night back in her arms to get you to show her what's been suffocating you. _But, _it won't take as long as it would if it were anybody else. You already feel like telling her everything.

Brittany nods and smiles softly before taking in a big breath. You begin to shift up to sit, separating your hands in the process. She follows suit and you both move off the bed, adjusting your own attire as you prepare to walk her out. You reach to the bedside table and check the time on your phone, finding that it's 7:43am which is far earlier than you're normally up. That means Quinn and Tina are still at home because you remember neither of them have classes before 10 on Mondays. You're also aware that they might be awake and sitting right outside your door which means there will be looks of surprise and a shitload of both spoken and unspoken questions. The thought makes you groan internally, eyes closing as you inhale a dreading breath.

"You okay?" she asks quietly from the other end side of the bed. She's tying up her hair in messy bun, which you find beautiful, and starts to make her way over to you when she's done.

"Yeah," you breathe out, turning around to meet her halfway at the end of your bed. Her hand reaches up to brush away a few strands of loose hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear. You try to relax but the thought of Tina and Quinn outside makes you nervous again, eyes glancing towards the door warily.

She watches where you look and turns too, realizing what's wrong. She finishes with your hair and lets her hand fall before meeting your eyes again, "I can handle them, okay? Just stay here."

Brittany smiles affectionately and for the time being, you gaze at her in amazement. How is she so perfect? How does she know exactly what you want all the time? You really don't want to go out there but after all she's done for you so far, you're going to make yourself face Quinn and Tina for her.

"Come on," you say quietly, taking her hand in yours and leading her to the door. Just before you turn away, you catch the blush on her cheeks and the way her head lowers to hide it. Her reaction gives you enough strength; you love that about loving her.

The door opens and you walk out, still holding Brittany's hand in yours. Tina stands behind the counter, pouring some coffee into her mug when she glances up. She's surprised when she sees you but she's stunned when she sees Brittany. Her eyes widen and she jerks her head out when she registers what's in front of her.

"Oh…" Tina says, startled. Her eyes shift back and forth between the two of you before her brow lifts in realization, "Ohhh."

You glance at Brittany and she searches you quickly before turning to talk to Tina, "Hey…sorry, I um…we were talking and it got late so…"

Tina nods understandingly but you can tell she has so many more questions, "No…don't, uh, don't worry about it. I just…I…I wasn't expecting Santana to come out of her room this early let alone with…company."

You lower your head and grip her hand a little tighter, palms pressing more urgently. Tina's eyes fall quickly down to where you and Brittany are joined and she presses her lips together, but you aren't quite sure what that means. It doesn't seem too judgmental but still, it makes you conscious enough to start squirming. Brittany notices the change in your reaction.

"I'll try to get up earlier and sneak out next time," Brittany says humorously, dragging you towards the door.

Tina chuckles, "Don't be silly… what's the rush?"

Brittany continues to answer while you stay a quiet member of the conversation, avoiding Tina's brief glances towards you every once in a while, "Ah…I…I'm late for class."

"Oh okay," Tina says just as you open the door to let Brittany out, "We should hang out tonight. All of us, after Santana finishes work or something."

This time Brittany looks at you because she can't say yes unless you agree to it. You don't think having all four of you together is a good idea yet; too many questions, too much pressure to answer them. Being with Brittany alone is overwhelming, Quinn already makes you anxious about confessing to something, and Tina plays the silent card on you so you feel incredibly intimated by her lack of voiced opinion, if that makes sense. All of those put together would call for disaster and probably a type of damage you would never return from. Somehow, you manage to explain all of that to Brittany because she only takes a few seconds to search your eyes before she knows what to say and turns back to Tina to say it.

"Maybe not tonight…" she says, "We…uh, I wanted to take Santana somewhere..."

Your head perks up because that wasn't what you expected nor had she mentioned anything to you about taking you somewhere. She must have come up with it on the spot for an excuse not to arrange this gathering tonight. You work until 9 on Mondays so technically there would still be time to do something but you don't think Brittany is serious about it. Either way you're stomach bubbles with a lingering anticipation.

Tina forms an silent "oh" with her mouth before smirking subtly, "Another time then."

Brittany smiles warmly, "That'd be nice."

She starts to make her way out, thinking you'll let go of her hand but instead you step outside with her. It takes a few times to get the door really shut, because of that damn alignment problem, but eventually you get it and hear the click.

"You should really get that fixed," she says with a small chuckle.

"Cheap door," you mutter in frustration before turning to her and finally taking a calm breath now that you're out of the apartment. You spend some time admiring the girl in front of you because you can't get enough. Plus, you have two years to make up for.

Brittany lets her giggle collapse into an affectionate smile as she steps closer into you. Your back aligns with the wall beside the door, leaning against it. She makes you nervous but not in any of the ways Tina or Quinn does, not in the way your fears make you. The kind of nervous you are around is the kind you like being, the kind that keeps you hopeful, that tells you you're allowed to be a little scared but that you don't need to worry too much because you're not going to fall. Or, if you do fall, you're not going to hit the ground because she's going to catch you. She makes you the good kind of nervous, the healthy kind.

"So…I'll…just," she says slowly, moving in closer as her eyes occasionally fall to your lips, "…I'll see you soon then."

You peer up at her, feeling your chest pressurize with the fast beating of your heart. You body grows warm, hot even, and your breathing escalates into a quicker pace, "O-Okay…"

"Will you call me?" she asks, in a way such that she's more telling you to rather than requesting.

"Yeah," you answer breathlessly, as if she's sucking away the air from your lungs again.

Brittany nods and presses her lips together, licking them over once. When she leans in, your heart catapults against a wall of your chest, causing your head to spin lightly. Brittany's lips hover near yours but in the last moment, she shifts them over and twists to place a kiss on your cheek. You close your eyes as she lingers there, soaking in her proximity. Her body is almost flush with yours to press you against the wall, only a few inches apart. As she pulls away, her hands reach up and hold your neck before she shifts to place another kiss on your forehead. Your heart keeps beating towards her; like it can detect that she's near, like it can detect that the whole purpose it beats for is near. Your stomach has done a few turns and flips, fluttering in lust. If she can make you feel like this all the time, you'd be okay with that.

As she begins to come back down, she doesn't steer too far away so soon. Instead, she lets her body linger there and keeps her face close to yours while her hands drop down from your neck. Your foreheads come together briefly, like a final moment with each other, before she breathes out and starts to draw away. For you, though, the moment is over too soon, too quick and too short, and you want a few more seconds. You reach up quickly, urgently, and grab the back of her neck, pulling her in against your lips. You had to kiss her, despite what happened last night. There was an itch under your skin and you knew it was clawing its way out of you towards her. You're satisfying it now, as your lips enclose on hers and your eyes shut for the moment, feeling her hands reach to hold your waist. It's only a quick one, because you can't afford to linger too long and cause another upset in your system. You don't want to put Brittany through it again because you know she wouldn't think twice about making it to class, she'd just stay. While that isn't a bad thing for you, you don't want that for her so you break away, breathing out heavily and opening your eyes to the ground.

"Hmh," she breathes out light-headedly, stumbling backwards a little from the abruptness of the kiss. You took her by surprise.

Your hands slide down her neck and press against her chest, immediately straightening up when you feel her heart beat against your palms. Last night, she had a calm pace. It feels like an entirely different heart now because of how forcefully it's beating. You can feel the skin pound, the thumps lifting it up against your touch.

"You should go…" you say with an exhale, "…before…before I change my mind."

"I c-could…stay," she hums willingly.

You smile softly to yourself before shaking your head, "Go…"

She sighs, knowing that she has to too. After a few more seconds there, sharing the air between you, Brittany pulls away completely. The separation is quick and sudden, like tearing off a band aid, but you know that it was the only way she was going to be able to leave and the only way you were going to let her. Any more time spent that close and you would have given in and brought her back inside with you.

Brittany takes in a breath and meets your eyes, flushed from the kiss, "…'kay…Bye…"

You nod, lifting up your hand without waving as she starts to walk down the hallway. She tries to smile but it doesn't quite make it that far because you assume her mind is still blurry from having kissed her so heatedly only moments ago. You watch her disappear down the stairs and wait briefly in case, by any chance, she'll come running back to you. You know she won't, though, and that scares you. Now that you found her, you really don't want to let her go, but you can't shake that feeling of one day waking up and never seeing her again. The terrifying thing about life is that we never know when the last is our last. If we did, we would make the moments count for more. It's unjust but its life and we cannot turn something naturally unpredictable into the predicted.

With a sigh, you turn around and enter the apartment, finding Quinn and Tina standing by the counter ready to leave somewhere. You think they may have been waiting for you and Brittany to finish up your goodbyes before coming out. You're thankful for that because you wouldn't have appreciated either of them opening the door on you and Brittany kissing. You spend a second looking at them before bowing your head and attempting to make it back to your room without having to discuss the events.

"Did Brittany stay the night?" Quinn asks, understandably considering she hadn't seen it for herself.

"Uh…yeah," you mutter, slowing down.

"So you're…okay with her now?" Tina wonders hopefully.

You nod, feeling strange because you don't have the urge to storm off right now. Maybe Brittany flipped another switch in you, the one that turned off your snarky comments. Or maybe you're still recovering from spending the night with her.

"Yeah, I guess," you admit vaguely, before wanting to ask something, "Are you guys…going somewhere?"

"Yeah, Quinn and I are grabbing coffee before our class," Tina responds, "We didn't think you'd be up but since you are…do you wanna come?"

_No, not really_. You feel like that will lead to something you don't want to get into right now. Being honest with Brittany is already challenging and that says something because you're always honest with her. Telling the truth around her is practically natural, there's no other option that you take. Once something _that _natural becomes difficult, like it did last night, you know that this isn't something you can just spring up a conversation about. Of course it isn't.

"No, thanks," you finally say and tighten your lips, "I'm uh…I have things to do today."

That's a lie but you don't really care as you turn around on your heels and aim for the bedroom.

"Santana," Quinn calls out after you just as you open your door. When you twist back around, you watch her glance over to Tina before taking a step out towards you, "I'm sorry…about, um, about before. I didn't mean to upset you."

The memory clicks and you suddenly remember that the last time you had really seen Quinn was when she was badgering you with all those questions. Last night, well, you barely 'saw' any of them with the state you were in and if Brittany hadn't stayed, you would have forgotten the entire experience of coming home. You're not really in the mood for this discussion to start again. After having Brittany so willingly talk about something else, you don't feel like going back to making every conversation about you.

"Uh…it's fine," you say, nodding with a faded pressed smile, "I'm fine."

"Okay…" Quinn nods, "I just don't want you to feel like I was…forcing you to talk."

You frown a little, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning against the door frame, "Okay…but you kind of were, Quinn."

"No…Santana," Quinn objects before catching herself and sighing, "I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel that way. I guess I'm letting this worry make decisions for me."

"Then don't worry so much," you suggest simply with a shrug before shifting your eyes to Tina in the background, "Both of you."

They fall speechless and you turn around, stepping into your room when a final thought comes to you. You grip the frame and twist once more, "…did it ever occur to you that maybe we don't talk because all you _ever _do is ask me if I'm okay?"

With an expecting stare, you enter your room and close the door behind you gently because you're not mad and you don't want them to think you are. You just want them to stop worrying so much; maybe stop bringing it up whenever they get the chance. The truth is you're not tired of them asking you the questions. What you're tired of is the fact that every time they _do _ask, or anyone asks, you have to start thinking about it again. Not that you can forget. You wish it was possible, _forget_. You'd give anything because thinking about it is the last thing you ever want to remember.

* * *

Quinn and Tina step out onto the street, the cool winds hitting them a little colder than they would have liked. The coffee shop is a more than a few blocks away but since they have time, they plan to walk the city and perhaps get in a few conversations about what happened this morning.

"I think it's sweet Brittany stayed over," Tina says pleasantly as they begin walking side by side.

"I'm surprised San let her," Quinn adds, "Did you know they were that close again?"

"Well…" Tina says, eyeing Quinn, "…it _is _Brittany and Santana."

"Right," Quinn chuckles, looking both ways as they cross the street together, "I guess I figured she would hold back for while longer, considering how closed off she's been with us."

"I don't really think we can compare ourselves to Brittany," Tina explains, "She's the love of her life, we all know that."

"I know," Quinn says, acknowledging the truth they have all been aware of since high school, "I think it's good that Brittany is back in her life."

"Yeah…I think it's working," Tina points out, "Santana seems less distant that she used to be."

Quinn nods, keeping her eyes on the traffic that passes by. She squints in thought, conjuring up a few ideas that she wants to get off her mind. Quinn doesn't want to come off a pest but she finds it difficult living with someone who practically…doesn't live there. Santana has been like an absent roommate for Quinn, and possibly for Tina too, but she finds it surprisingly hard to deal with, especially after having spent a good year and half living with her.

"Do you think she was trying to tell us something," Quinn wonders, "…at home, before she went into her room?"

"You mean us asking too much?" Tina questions and waits for Quinn's response to say her opinion.

"Yeah," Quinn says, "I mean…is she scared of us?"

Tina's brow knots, contemplating her answer, "No…well, uh…I think…I think we have been pushing it a little on her, Quinn. Obviously something happened and she doesn't want to talk about it, at least not now."

"But what if it's not that she doesn't_ want_ to talk about it," Quinn proposes, "What if like…I don't know…what if she _can't._"

"What do you mean?" Tina asks, puzzled by Quinn's theory.

"I don't know," she says in defeat, sighing because she's starting to think her thoughts are getting too out of control, "I feel like this isn't some 'thing'that happened. I feel like…I feel like something happened _to _her."

"Why do think that?" Tina continues, trying to get more out of Quinn because she's been acting strange lately, stressing over Santana's problems and behavior more so than usual.

"Do you remember high school?" Quinn says, throwing the memory back into their lives again, "…when Finn, uh…you know—"

"Outed her in the middle of a McKinley High hallway," Tina finishes in a slightly angry tone before feeling disgust churn at the pit of her stomach, "We all remember that Quinn. It was practically a public event."

Quinn hates talking about that as much as Tina does, and she no doubt has a strong opinion about it, but she nods instead, trying to focus on her point, "Yeah, I know…but do remember how she took that?"

"Well…not really because she didn't really talk to us about it," Tina recalls.

"Exactly," Quinn states, eyebrows lifting to prove her assumption.

"So…" Tina lags, trying to put the pieces together but finding that she might need a little bit more from Quinn.

"So she internalized everything," Quinn elaborates confidently, "That's what she does, Tina."

"Wait so…you think she was outed…again? Or like, I'm not really following you here, Q," Tina responds confusedly.

Quinn sighs before pulling Tina down a side street and slowing down, "No…I'm saying I think something happened to her, something worse. I mean, whatever it was has to be pretty bad if it got her to drop out of Columbia. She's a bartender, Tina!"

"Okay, okay," Tina says, gripping Quinn by the shoulders to get her to calm down, "Okay…maybe you're right, maybe something did happen to her. Look, Quinn, I'm just as worried about Santana as you are but what are we going to do? She clearly doesn't want to talk about it with us yet and who knows when she will. We can't pry into her like this, we just can't. Santana will come to us when she's ready so in the meantime, we have to let her be."

Quinn sighs, frustrated with the entire situation. She wishes it was that easy to let go of it and leave Santana alone until she does decide to talk about it. For some reason, and most likely because Santana is one of the few Quinn truly cares about, she can't seem to dismiss it so simply. Tina is more understanding, more willing to let Santana work through her own issues in the time that she needs. The two are extremely different in nature but it isn't that Quinn wants to force anything out of Santana whereas Tina doesn't. It's more the fact that Quinn is less patient with letting this go on any longer.

"You think she'll tell Brittany?" Quinn asks, lowering her voice.

"Yes, I do," Tina confesses confidently, "I believe that we should have brought Britt back when things first started changing, considering they've only been reunited for five or something days and there's already a difference."

Quinn drags her foot across the ground, tracing lines with the tip of her shoe before kicking the pavement lightly.

"The point is…she's here now and she's going to help. Give her a chance, Quinn." Tina says, finishing her thoughts.

"Fine…fine," Quinn nods, waving her hands in a final gesture, "You're right."

"Good, that's settled," Tina says with a huff of exhaustion, "Now can we please get some stronger coffee? I can barely keep my head up."

* * *

The bedroom feels too empty now without her. You're a little unnerved by the hollow nature of the air that floats around you, wishing for it to be occupied by another presence. Not just anyone, though. Brittany. You just said goodbye to her and now you regret having sent her away, but it's selfish regret not honest regret. You don't actually wish you made her stay but that doesn't have to mean you didn't want her to. She's the only person you'd rather be with right now than anyone. You'd take another hour with Brittany than a lifetime with someone else. You're sure of it.

You sit down at your desk and lift the lid of your laptop, finding the last thing you were doing was searching up the lyrics of a song you must have heard playing at the bar…or somewhere, you don't really remember. You open a new tab in the browser and direct it to Google despite the fact that you don't have any idea what you're doing. You shift in the chair but hear a thump against the ground moments later. Glancing down at the noise, you see the items of your handbag displayed across the floor. Your eyes scan over the objects but come to stop at one in particular, widening as you immediately scramble down to steal it away. The coke almost spills out onto your hand when you grab and tighten a fist around it, the small zip lock popping open.

"Shit," you mutter, when the small poof of white powder shoots up from the bag. You dust your hands off and place the baggie onto the desk beside your laptop, falling into your chair as you lean back and stare at it. You give it a good glare, eyeing the corners of the bag and the white matter it carries when you have a sudden thought. You clear your throat and sniff, sitting upright again and outstretching your arms once. Your fingers settle on the keys and begin to type.

_Cocaine._

The results show up and you scroll down to scan over the searches, finding that you're only stumbling upon definitions and history of the drug rather what you actually wanted. You know what cocaine is for Christ's sake. You sigh and return to the top of the page, fingers hovering about the keyboard as you contemplate the next search.

_Symptoms of cocaine use. _

You hit enter and wait. The first few sources that come up don't interest you, or maybe that's just a natural instinct of yours. Never trust the first Google links that show up because they're either Wikipedia or Wiki Answers and you find those flat out unreliable. Either way, you keep scrolling until one link catches your eye. _How to Recognize a Cocaine Addiction. _With hesitant hands, you click on the link and wait the split seconds for the page to load, an amount of time that feels excruciatingly long and anxious all of a sudden.

_1. Examine the eyes and pupils. _Okay, you can only assume that something changes in that sense but you haven't really ever looked at yourself in the mirror during a rush. It isn't exactly the first thing you want to do. You scroll down a little further and expect another measure that doesn't apply to you.

_2. Watch for nosebleeds. _You freeze momentarily, eyes still processing the words. Impulsively, your hand reaches up to your nose and pats the area around it. There's no blood, which is good, but you're reminded that there has been blood there before—twice. _O__ne of the most serious permanent effects of using cocaine is extensive damage to the nasal passages and septum of the nose_.

You reach out and slap the lid of your lap top shut, finding that once you've stopped reading, you can let go of that breath lodged in your throat. You knew the nosebleeds were happening for a reason but you didn't want to admit it, and you certainly didn't want to see it written down somewhere and made official. Although it was your decision to search it up on the internet, you immediately regret having been so curious, or concerned, because now your thoughts start to gather. You hate it when this happens because you start thinking and not just about the drugs but about everything. Mainly, you think about why you introduced yourself to them in the first place.

Stop.

Every time you get that far, to _that _point where it all started, you shut off your thoughts. It sounds like it would be difficult to just block out an idea but you've practiced. As they say, practice makes perfect. You know that it won't ever be forgotten but you can try and try to edge it out of the center of your world as much as possible. As far as it takes for the thoughts to stop becoming all you ever think about. Far enough so that they dangle from the cliff of your mind, lost and _almost_ forgotten.

Quickly, you pull the energy back into your body and stand up from the chair. You pack up your things, including the items that spilled out on the floor and the bag of coke on your desk. You feel dirty, like a layer of grime or dust covers your entire body. Maybe it's the fact that having the drug so near you is repulsive. Doing coke never made you feel good about yourself. It simply made you feel better about your situation, enough so that you weren't constantly shamed in the image of yourself, in the shadows of your past, in everything about you. But it's a temporary fix and an ineffective one at that.

You need to remove this coating of dirt that floats on your skin like a disease. You walk over to your closet and pull out a set of clothes and a towel, tucking it under your arm before walking out of the room to take a shower. A shower will help. Something about spending ten or so minutes scrubbing your arms and legs and body makes you feel cleaner, figuratively speaking, like maybe you aren't so tainted and broken after all.

The effects can last for twenty minutes, thirty if you're lucky. Soon enough, though, you remember that it's just a shower.

* * *

_The music is faint, too closed off by the perimeters of the room for you to listen carefully. The walls shift and turn and twist, and at one point they even start to melt away yet are constantly replaced by another layer. In other words, you can't get out. Beats emerge from somewhere but you aren't too sure whether it's the music or your heart. It could be your heart, but then you would notice something in your chest, wouldn't you? Right now, there's nothing but you aren't too sure whether your heart stopped beating or it's beating too hard and too fast that you've simply been numbed. Maybe that's the case, but why? What brings you so much terror? And where are you?_

_A figure stands in a corner but in shadows, too many that make the face difficult to identify. You squint, narrowing your eyes to gain a better view but nothing becomes clearer. You step back, feeling the blood shoot through your system at high pressures, perhaps a little too quickly that you begin to feel light headed. There are vigorous thumps pounding at the bottom of your throat, making the path to swallow a lot tighter. Alcohol is really rushing through your system, throwing your mind off reality, except you can't shake the fact that this doesn't feel like being drunk. You don't feel drunk at all actually. You feel worse, something beyond drunk, less carefree and more dangerous. The world feels like a train track with missing rails and you keep falling off. _

"_Lost?" a low voice says, dark and ominous. You jump, your insides springing from your skin as you swing around._

Your eyes shoot open, a desperate gasp cracking from your lips. You're panting, staring into the blank ceiling above you and watching how it soon fills with tiny dots poking at your vision. You feel paralyzed, stuck, immobile, and you have felt this feeling before. You should have known it would start happening, especially having had one a few nights ago. They're coming back—the nightmares—even though you spent so long building a wall of protection around yourself, around your mind.

You realize that nothing is strong enough to keep this out, that all those walls you built were good for was stalling rather than fighting off.

It feels like one of those lucid dreams you read about online somewhere; the ones where you know you're dreaming but you're conscious, wide awake, watching yourself dangle from the thread of reality into the vast unknown without any power or control. That arm doesn't move, that arm doesn't move, those fingers, those toes. You can see but nothing moves. You snap your eyes shut again and count to ten. Every second, you try to move something. It's the method you used when these were occurring more frequently, months ago, when your wounds were much fresher. You knew they wouldn't be gone forever but when they stopping haunting you every night, you felt so much relief. A night of sleep was something you treasured. You still do because you can't say you've had a good night sleep since…wait. Last night. Brittany.

You quickly scramble together your thoughts and push yourself to think about her. Brittany. Her smile, the way it curves perfectly at the corners of her mouth, warm and loving. Her hair, golden blonde like the sun but better because you don't have to look away. Her eyes, that beautiful blue, perfect like no sky can ever amount to. You're eyes shut tighter. Her hands, soft and fitting, the spaces between her fingers matched for yours, palms shaped for each others. Her body, curved and lean, molded to wrap with yours better than two puzzle pieces come together. All of it together, mixed into a being, a being that belongs to you, _your _being, Brittany.

It's silent; no echoes, no screams, no cries. With eyes closed tightly, you hear nothing. You stay still temporarily in case anything jumps from the darkness out of nowhere. You would be terrified but you wouldn't be surprised.

A few minutes pass and you think it might be okay now. You slowly peel your eyes open, guiding the light of the late afternoon back into your life. You attempt to move something, your toes, and take a deep breath. They move. You try your fingers this time. They move too. Your head, that moves, your legs, they move. Before you can even process, you snap up with a gasp, hands desperately clinging to the material of your shirt at your chest. You pant, glancing around the room to identify your surroundings. You're at home, in your room. You must have fallen asleep. Brittany left, you showered, and then you fell asleep on the bed.

Your reach your hands up to run fingers through your damp hair anxiously but stop when they come into view. You stare sharply at them, brow frowning incredibly. They're shaking, unsteady as if haunted vibrations permanently switched on in the nerves of your fingers. You squint and quickly try to grip one hand with the other but find that they only start trembling together, becoming more noticeable. You panic, the thumps in your chest weighing you down like heavy footsteps banging against a thin wooden floor.

Quickly, you swing to the side and reach for your phone on the bedside table. It shakes in your palm along with your hand but you still try to find the time. Why are you sleeping so much these days? You can't even remember much about what you were doing beforehand, before you drifted off. It's as if your body tuned out this world the moment your eyes closed, failing to recall what happened only…how long has it actually been? You're lost and confused but you know that you've woken up in the same day as this morning, when you woke up with Brittany. How long ago was that? A few hours? 4:54pm. Finally, you identify a time but how long have you been asleep for? You panic again. Why can't you answer these questions?

You glance at the time again but instead of figuring out when you fell asleep, you focus more on the fact that you're supposed to be at work in 6 minutes.

_Buzz. Buzz._

You jerk in your position on the bed, body flinging in shock. You glance down at your phone to find a new message from Brittany, gulping audibly as you read over the contents.

_Thinking about you – Brittany. _

You too. You were thinking about her too. Write it down, type it to her, send her the message. Your mind tells you what to do but you don't do it. For some reason, your fingers disobey any command your thoughts give them. In fact, you're entire body is uncooperative, refusing to follow anything that you're requesting of it. Instead, you lock the phone and take in a heavy breath. Why isn't anything going the way you want it?

With a huff, you stand up from the bed, feeling slightly lightheaded, and make your way to your desk. Your head feels heavy and dizzy, a precisely familiar sensation. Consciously, you sniff a few times and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. The stain catches your eye and you close in on it, seeing a small spot of red on your knuckles. You dab your nose again and notice you picked up more blood.

"Fuck," you swear, tending to your nose as you breathe out, "What …?"

It isn't pouring out like it did the last few times but there is blood there. Quickly, and probably with less contemplation than you should have taken, you open the door and peer out to check if anyone is home. Immediately after realizing the apartment, or the living room at least, is empty, you dash towards the bathroom and lock the door behind you. In the mirror, you can see that there's a small amount of fresh blood gathering above your lip. Your nose isn't gushing with red liquid, which you're thankful for, but it still bleeds tamely. You anxiously roll out the tissue paper and clean off your face, dabbing the material with water to rid the stains more effectively.

Once it's all gone, you linger in front of the mirror wearing a frown and shaking your head lightly. This is not good. This is the third nosebleed you've had so far and even though you can't be so sure about why they've only just started recently, you think it might be because of the excess stress. With Brittany coming back, you've added another whole chapter to your life and it isn't exactly a fluffy one to keep you positive. Having Brittany is good, it's healthy, but it's because she's good that you have to try harder. You have to try harder in everything because she makes you do that, she makes you want to be better, but with a life like yours, it isn't so simple. So you stress. Brittany doesn't cause you stress. You cause yourself stress because she's this light and you're still this darkness trying to transition.

You shake from your thoughts and sniff gently so that it doesn't cause any pain. You clean up the stained tissues and scope the sink and floor for any drops of blood before you leave the bathroom. Being in the apartment doesn't feel so right anymore because it seems as though this is where you think the most. It's usually silent, that's why. Silence keeps you thinking because without noises, without sounds or conversations, all you really have is your mind. And when it's just you and your mind, you walk a dangerous path towards everything you try so desperately to avoid. You can't have that, not now. So with a sigh and a determination, you quickly exit the apartment and make your way to work. You need work right now, something to keep you busy and focused.

When you arrive, you see that everything set up and a few of the _usuals _already sitting at the counter. Another coworker is tending to them behind the bar, seemingly having taken over your shift until you got here. When she looks up from her drink, she notices you and waves.

"Sorry," you mutter as you make your way to the counter, "Lost track of time."

"It's fine," she says nonchalantly, before taking a better look at you, "Are you alright to work tonight?"

You frown, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No, uh…well," she says hesitantly, looking down at the glass she's cleaning, "You just…you're a little pale."

"Huh?" you say stupidly, growing self-conscious about just how ill you look.

"Yeah," she nods, "Are you sick?"

"No," you answer immediately, huffing as you slide passed her and set your bag down in the corner somewhere, "I'm fine."

"Jerry will understand if you are," she reminds you, "We all get sick from time to time."

"I'm not sick," you spit, reaching for an apron to tie around your waist, "…really. You can go."

"Alright," she finally says, but you think it was more because she didn't want to argue anymore, not because she actually believes something isn't off about you, "I'll hang around for a bit in case you change your mind."

"Don't hold your breath," you retort, switching your mind into work mode so that all you care about right now is serving drinks and gaining tips.

It's probably the best thing about your job; being paid to devote your time to other people's needs rather than thinking about yourself. Most people would hate that, wouldn't they? Most normal people, including you if this were last year. The person you used to be would have hated serving other people. You don't particularly enjoy it, you just like the fact that your job keeps you busy. You don't have time to think when you're making drinks and taking orders. It's perfect for you. Well, not you Santana Lopez but you…this person, this version, this…replacement of you.

The shift flies by easily because there was a flow of customers at around six o'clock and you've been active with fulfilling orders ever since. You're in the last thirty minutes and finding that it is less demanding because everybody has received their drinks and are now occupying themselves with conversation and chit chat. You would usually move on to clean more glasses or refill the ice box but you don't think any glass can get any shinier than it is already. Plus, that coworker just so happened to swoop in and replace the ice so now you don't have much to do but wait around.

Your eyes scan the room casually, observing the customers tonight and seeing whether you recognize anyone in particular. You aren't expecting to, you're just trying to pass time.

"Hey, sweetheart!" someone calls out from the other end of the bar. You turn around and face the man who takes a seat and leans forward on the counter, smiling strangely at you.

Your stomach twists lightly, churning uncomfortable when you begin to approach him.

"What do you drink?" he asks spontaneously, leaning on his crossed arms that rest on the counter.

"Excuse me?" you react, frowning at his question.

"You know," he says, eyebrows gesturing to the shelves of liquor displayed behind you, "…what's it you drink?"

"That's my job to ask you," you answer, avoiding his advances, "What'll it be?"

"No, no…" he says, shaking his head and replacing his grin with an even wider, toothier smile, "I'm…uh, I'm asking _you_."

You cross your arms over your chest and step back, feeling a small shudder run down your spine. You're afraid right now, but you aren't sure why. Well that's not entirely true—you know why but you don't understand why this is starting to happen again. You thought you were past the stage of being scared of customers like this.

"See, my friend over there," he says, nodding once towards the booth behind him, "…he, uh, he thinks you're a catch."

You swallow nervously but try not to show it, "That's great…were you going to order something? I'm pretty busy."

"Really?" he says, smirking, "…'cause a second ago I coulda sworn you were standing around."

"If your friend is so eager…" you begin, "Why doesn't he just show up for himself?"

You regret asking that because you aren't interested and you don't want that friend or any of this other friends coming up to the bar. You don't even want him there anymore, not that you ever did. You can see where this is going and you don't like it because it starts to make you uneasy. Your chest pressurizes and your stomach drops every time his voice reaches your ears.

The man laughs, "Okay…alright. What if I just made that up?"

You stare at him strangely, suggesting that he elaborate.

"Maybe he's not the one that's interested," the man says, leaning forward even more.

You step back, feeling a rush of panic shoot through your system, "You gonna buy a drink? 'Cause if you aren't, we're done here."

"Aww," he winces playfully, pressing hand to his chest in attempt to be heartbroken, "You're killing me here. What's your name, beautiful?"

You've dealt with these kinds of people before on the job, the flirty ones, and while you didn't flirt back, you knew how to handle them. Or maybe handle isn't quite the word you should use. You've always just ignored them, shooed them off. Tonight, however, you can't remember how you used to be able to do that. Being straightforward? Was that how you did it?

"I'm not interested…alright?" you say seriously, glaring at him as well as you know how despite feeling fear infect several areas of your body.

He sits upright and smacks a more apologetic expression on his face, hands lifting up in defense, "Hey I was just…messing around."

"Do it somewhere else," you spit harshly.

His eyes slightly widen as he steps off the stool and backs up, "Sorry…uh, carry on."

When he returns to his friends, you finally let go of a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You're relieved but still shaken up inside. You really don't like advances like that, people who think they can swoop in, charm you up and then assume you'll fall into their trap. It makes you nervous and anxious and your heart beat uncontrollably, in the bad way. You can feel how it's changed already since a few minutes ago when you were waiting behind the bar and the moment he called out for you.

You glance at the clock and see that you still have ten minutes left of your shift, but you scan the counter and see no customers waiting for you. If you aren't needed, might as well punch out early. You really can't be here anymore. Not like this when there are potentially twenty other men who will make the same approach as that one man just did. He was one of the good ones, the honest ones that back off when you tell straight up that you're not interested. You hate the lingering ones, the pushers of luck.

Without much care, you take off your apron and pick up your bag from the corner you left it in. You realize, just before you leave, that you never punched into your shift. Again, though, you don't really care so you just punch out early and start towards the door. Ideally, you should tell someone you're leaving early so that you don't leave the bar unattended for ten minutes straight. That'll get you in trouble if there are any complaints but you just need to leave. Walking through the crowd already makes you nervous and paranoid that once you push the door open and step out into the night, you exhale like you had held your breath all the way from the counter.

You reach up and cover your face with your hands, drawing focus to your breathing and how heavy it becomes.

"So this is where you work," a voice says, and if it weren't so familiar you would have screamed. You did jerk though.

When you turn, you come to find something you didn't know you needed to see until now, breathing out in a relieved sigh, "Brittany…"

She pushes herself off the wall and makes her way towards you, eyes falling to the ground bashfully. You find your body coming to a complete rest, reactions slowing and panic disappearing almost entirely.

"Wh-What are you doing here?" you ask, suddenly confused by her unexpected presence.

"Oh, Tina told me where you worked," she responds.

"No, uh," you hesitate, trying to rephrase the question, "Why did you come?"

"Did you forget already?" Brittany says, lifting up with a quirked eyebrow. You frown and try to remember what she could be talking about but fail and watch as she smiles warmly at you, "I wanted to take you somewhere."

Your head jerks out gently, "Y-You were serious?"

"Of course," she says with a chuckle that melts you right on the spot.

You share a moment with her, silent but not empty, rather full and rich. You want her to hold you. You don't know why you thought of it but you want her arms wrapped around you because that always makes you feel safer and right now you need to feel a little more protected, a little less vulnerable and at threat.

"Unless…" she hesitates, peering up at you, "I don't…A-Are you tired? Do you just want to go home?"

"No…" you say immediately, "No…please don't…go."

After a moment, you hear your words replay in your head and only then does it register how desperate and scared you sound. You didn't intend to plead for her but right now, she's the only thing that's going to help you feel any better. You aren't going to ignore that fact.

"Okay," she says softly before smiling at you affectionately. Brittany gazes at you momentarily, confirming that you truly do want her here. Eventually, she reaches out and takes your hand in hers, walking passed as she drags you along, "Come on."

Holding her hand is already enough to keep you grounded, safer than you were when you left the bar. As you walk down the street, to wherever she's taking you, the world feels a little less intimidating. You wonder how that works exactly. This has happened before; it used to happen all the time in high school. Brittany would take your hand and suddenly you'd be more confident about yourself, about surviving through whatever difficult situation you found yourself in. The effect still lasts until this day and you're so glad that Brittany can make the world less of a threat, less of a shark tank where you're the bait. If there's one thing you'll probably always fear, it's the dangerous nature of the universe and how we can never really prepare for what is to come. While Brittany doesn't eliminate that fear, she hinders it. She wounds it, weakens it, damages it. She's your hero and her greatest power is being able to know when you need her before you can cry for help because most of the time, you barely have a voice to yell at all.

To your surprise, you arrive there within less than ten minutes. Once you're inside, she lets go of your hand but you're okay because she's still near and has given you enough security to last a while longer on your own. Soon enough, though, you'll need her again.

As you walk the hallway, you realize that you've been here before but you can't quite place the memory. The walls and the doors don't register in your thoughts but the fluorescent lights on the ceiling beam down familiarly. You glance up and in that position do you realize that this is where she took you when you she was helping to clean up your nosebleed. Julliard. Right?

"Watch your step," she warns you and you quickly bring your head back down to eye level and notice you were about to walk into a pillar.

You stumble lightly and shift over in time to turn the corner with her, eyes observing around you curiously, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Brittany answers, slowing down and glancing over her shoulder as you catch up.

As you continuing walking, finally gaining the steps to be side by side with her again, you extend your hand out and quickly place your palm against hers, lacing your fingers shortly afterwards. From the corner of your eye, you notice Brittany glance down and smile at your joined hands. Your cheeks warm and your heart pounds faster, especially when she tightens her grip around you.

"Okay," she says suddenly, coming to a stop in front of a door, "We're here."

You glance at her, watching her features soften in front of your gaze. She nods and gestures for you to take the approach towards opening the door and stepping inside whatever room is behind it. You're nervous, but not like you had been earlier tonight. You know Brittany would never intentionally set you up for a scare, not when you've already proven how fragile you've become since she last saw you.

Hesitantly, you step forwards and clench your grip tighter around her hand. She twists a little so that she comes to stand behind you, hands still joined as your free one reaches to open the door and you file in. It's dark when you enter but you feel her shift behind you and eventually the lights turn on to expose you to a recording studio. Your eyes scan every surface and corner of the control room, the panels and soundboards, before you look through into the live room where the music is meant to happen. You move forwards, your stomach flutters, you chest swells, and maybe you fall in love just a little more.

"Tina told me you don't sing anymore," Brittany says gently before you hear the door shut behind you. She shifts closer until you feel her front press against your back, letting go of your hand to wrap her arms around your waist from behind.

You stiffen initially before feeling her embrace melt your tension into lust and love and everything positive that you feel for her. Your eyes are still stunned with what's in front of you but your body lets go and leans back into hers, allowing her frame to catch and support you. She lowers down so her breath floats into your ear, causing you to tilt your head off to the side.

"I thought maybe I could help change that," she whispers and you feel a line of tingles rush through your body and above your skin.

"I…" you breathe out, "This is…you shouldn't hav—"

"But I wanted to," she murmurs. You place your arms over hers and feel how she strengthens her hold around your body.

You continue to admire the room and everything in it. Tina wasn't wrong about what she told Brittany; you haven't sung in a long time. You don't know when she must have mentioned it to Brittany but it's true. Ironically enough, it isn't that you have lost the passion for it but more that you have too much passion that singing becomes something too overwhelming for you. Expressing yourself through song has always been your forte. In fact, you do it best through singing because you show it, all of your emotions right there for anyone and everyone to see. Singing allows you to expose yourself as opposed to having something expose you, and that's why you love it. Or used to, at least. The problem now is that you have too much. There is so much unspoken conflict within you that you are so afraid to deal with and singing would only push that further out, maybe even before you are really ready.

"I don't…think I can," you admit, "Not tonight."

"Then tomorrow," she says immediately, "…or the day after that, or the week after that, or whenever you want to."

You frown to yourself, thinking she would have encouraged you to sing something, even just a little bit, tonight. Confused, you break from the embrace and turn to face her. She keeps her hands at your waist and pulls back, searching your expression momentarily until she understands what's going on in your thoughts. She does that so well that it makes your life easier because instead of having to explaining every feeling you have, you can almost just look at her instead. Brittany smiles warmly, eyes shifting from yours to the live room behind you.

"It's here. When you're ready," she says, lingering temporarily until a thought crosses her mind and she breaks the gaze, shaking her head bashfully, "I mean, I'll probably have to be with you…'cause I'm a student and I'm not really sure whether or not this is an open to the public so it might be a litt—"

You don't let her finish whatever thought she was making because instead of listening, you kiss her. She hums in surprise when your lips meet but eventually, she smiles into the kiss and joins her hands at the small of your back. It still feels overwhelming to be kissing her so you don't let it last for long. You just wanted her to thank her and words didn't feel like enough. You also wanted to remind her that you love her, that maybe you can't say it or show it quite yet; you still feel it with everything that you have. You know Brittany knows all of that already but you also know that she loves any form of you communicating that to her.

As you break from the kiss, breathing in each other's recycled breaths, your foreheads come to rest together. You wish you could soak up all that she offers in an inhale, like you could make her a part of you so that she stays here forever no matter how far she actually is.

"I…" Brittany starts to say as she pulls away and meets your eyes again.

Your heart hits the wall of your chest when she peers down at you because you know what she wants to say but, and possibly for the first time in your life, you don't want her to say it. You know she does, you know very well that she does but hearing it will make it official and you aren't ready to bring it all back again. When it comes to Brittany, you don't ever think you'll be good enough. You managed to settle with this battle of insecurity in high school when you were girlfriends but again, this isn't high school anymore and you're not the same Santana Lopez that she remembers. The worst part about that is the fact that that girl is never going to come back.

Brittany watches your eyes as they shift back and forth between hers, filling with worry. Just as you expected, she takes the hint and swallows her words, tightening her lips to a pressed smile. She closes her eyes and leans in to kiss the tip of your nose lightly, probably hoping it would soothe you when actually; the gesture makes you feel incredibly guilty. You can see she's upset that she can't tell you what she wants to tell you but she tries to hide it so well for your benefit. Brittany is so selfless that way; you don't know how she has the patience to put up with you half the time. You know you make it hard for her so you try to give her things that will remind her that you're still here, and you're still committed. Like the kiss you gave her. You will keep giving her those short kisses, as many times as you want, until you can start making them longer and deeper and more passionate.

She starts to distance herself even further, stepping backwards and breaking the gaze you were sharing with her. Impulsively, you tug her hand back so she doesn't get too far.

"Britt…" you say quietly and wait until she comes back to you fully, "Please…give me time."

"No…no I know," she answers, eyes closed and nodding a little too much that it only confirms how upset she is, "I'm sorry."

"I'm…" you begin but realize that you're about to tell her something you haven't told anyone. The confession piles at the tip of your tongue, ready to be said, to be voiced, to be made heard of so it can no longer suffer a silent death. You watch as her eyes delve deeply into you, begging that you finish your sentence and not abandon it like you often have done recently with your other sentences. For comfort, she steps closer and holds you a little tighter.

"I'm…scared," you whisper, and find that her eyes burn so aggressively into yours that you have to look away. Then again, maybe it wasn't that her gaze was so passionate but instead that the confession was too thick and burdening that you felt so ashamed to admit it.

After taking a moment to contemplate what she might say or how she might react, you peer back at her. Her head is tilted to the side in the slightest angle and it heightens your fear because now you're afraid that telling her about this means she'll only worry that much more about you. Brittany nods slowly before reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, allowing her fingers to trace your jaw line gently. She lets herself linger there momentarily, admiring all that she can before she reaches to the back of your neck and pulls you into an embrace.

Your body warms immediately and surrenders to the comfort she offers so willingly. You gladly take it, you always do. When something can make your heart beat fast and slow at the same time, or make your stomach flutter nervously and excitedly at the same time, then it's something you know you're going to need to hold onto. Memorize it, keep it in thought, use it to your advantage. Brittany gives you all of that for free, half the time without even waiting for you to ask, and when something that special comes around, you know better than to let it pass you right on by.

"I_ have_ you," she whispers against your ear.

They aren't the three words she wanted to say earlier but even blindly, just from listening, you know she means it just as much as she would the other thing. And more importantly, she doesn't say it in the way that makes the subject of the sentence you. She isn't pointing out that you are something that she has. It isn't that she has _you_, it's that she _has _you. She's carrying you. She's supporting you. She's protecting you. In all forms and meanings and possibilities, Brittany has you.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the longer wait for this update! I've been so busy with school but hopefully I'll keep the chapters no more than a week apart. I intend on it being less but that's just to give a ballpark figure of how frequent I will update. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! LOTS of Brittana which I enjoyed writing and _a lot _of hints about what might have happened to Santana. Thanks to everyone who is still reading and to any new readers, welcome! Let me know your thoughts so far :) xx **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Two trigger warnings are set for this chapter and basically for the rest of the story from now on. **

* * *

**Chapter 9: This Time, We'll Fade Out Tonight**

She unlocks the door slowly, one hand twisting the key into the lock and the other laced with yours. To your surprise, she doesn't open it and walk in just yet. Instead, she pulls the key out and turns around to face you. Neither of you have spoken much since you left Julliard. The last thing she said was to ask whether you wanted to walk her home and the last thing you said was yes. Actually, you're not too sure about that because you can't quite remember whether you said it or just nodded. In fact, the past fifteen minutes have been a blur to you now that you try to think about it.

The walk home was silent but not in a bad way necessarily, more in a comfortable absence of words kind of way. What you do appreciate, though, is how she hasn't let go of your hand. That has kept you grounded this whole time. Brittany is amazing like that. You know how sometimes we meet someone who makes us feel secure and stable, and then we meet someone who shoots us into the stars. You consider yourself lucky because you feel both from the same person. Brittany is both forces: the one sending you straight to the moon and the one keeping you safe and steady on earth. Sometimes you wonder how you managed to last the past few months without her. Sometimes you wonder how you managed to last the past two years.

When your eyes meet for the first time since you left the studio, the energy recharges inside you. It is as if you were losing more power the longer you spent looking away from her. As if you are a drained battery and she is the charger, building you back to life with her own special electricity, the only kind you want flowing through your veins. Doing what's right doesn't always feel good, but when it does, it's amazing. Not only does Brittany's love feel right, but it feels like royalty, like pure beauty splashing over you. It doesn't get better than Brittany.

Her eyes drop in between the two of you to glance at your intertwined fingers. She stuffs the keys into her pocket and lets that hand join the other. Instead of watching what she's watching, you just watch her instead. She's far more fascinating, especially in these moments. You like to catch the little changes in her features. Sometimes it'll be the slow blinking when she stares into you. Other times, it'll be the nervous breath she takes when she remembers that she is still in love with you, and that beautiful exhale that follows when she realizes you're still in love with her too. You wish you could tell her how you feel, or more like what you haven't stopped feeling since high school. Brittany knows it already, but you wish you could tell her, give her the words as flesh, as something she can put to memory, but you can't. Not right now at least. There's a lot more you have to say before you can say that, even though it's just three words, even though they were all you ever used to say. A lot has changed in two years and realizing that you can't tell Brittany the simplest thing, "I love you", only reminds you of how twisted things have become.

She steps forward and glances back up at you, searching your eyes to gain a better idea of where your emotions stand right now. You're okay, so far. You just admitted you were scared, not too long ago, and that is something you haven't told anyone yet. Brittany is the only person you think you could handle telling right now, but even with her, you're terrified. The frustrating thing about your situation is that you aren't just scared but you're scared of admitting that you're scared which keeps you locked up in this cage. You can't even begin to move forward if you aren't willing to take a few steps closer towards your fear. Most people only have that one step; getting close to what they're scared of. You have an extra one so you have to fight that much harder. You need to overcome the fear of admitting fear first, and only once you've accomplished that can you work on overcoming the real fear.

"Do you want to come in?" she finally asks softly, squeezing your hand tighter.

"Uh…" you struggle, losing words by the second.

"You don't have to," Brittany says, "I…I just…if you don't want to walk home, you can stay."

Stay. The word carries so many implications. So much can happen overnight. You aren't quite sure what she has planned. Brittany knows how fragile you are so you shouldn't be worried about her taking a few steps too far. But if you stay, then would she…would she try to make something of tonight? A small fit of panic bursts inside you even just thinking about the possibility. The problem between you and Brittany is that you might want to be with her but you don't want to _be _with her. You love Brittany, you're _in _love with her, but as much as you used to show that love for her in certain ways back in high school, _physically_, you can't do that now. You don't want to…mess around with feelings, not yours nor hers, and you certainly don't want to hurt Brittany or give her false hope. There's no guarantee you'll ever be the girl you used to be. In fact, there's no way you'll ever return to who you were; that person is long gone and until recently, you hadn't really been interested in finding her again. The difference between then and now is Brittany. The only reason you suddenly miss being that old girl is because that girl could have Brittany, could be good enough for her. You, whoever you are now, can't.

"Hey," she murmurs, closing more distance between the two of you, "Hey what's wrong?"

_Fuck_. She's worried now. You can always tell when the worrying starts because she blinks once and just like that, her eyes transform from beautiful blue to tainted grey. You hate the change in color because you're almost always the one causing it. Maybe it does feel good to have people worry about you, to know they care enough, but Brittany doesn't worry like everybody else. She worries differently, passionately, and when it comes to worrying about you, it isn't something you want her to have to deal with. She burdens herself, stresses out too much about what could possibly be wrong and if she had anything to do with it. When Brittany starts to question whether or not she is good for you, that's when you know you really have to fix something. If there's one thing you're sure about, it's that Brittany is good for you, the best, the only thing that can turn you into something beautiful.

You shake your head, not necessarily to answer her question but to express the fact that your thoughts and feelings aren't on the same page. Lately, emotions have been running high all the time, like being on an endless rollercoaster, a beginning, but no finish, and they won't ever stop the ride no matter how badly you want to get off. It never used to be this way. Sure, high school was horrible and difficult and every day up until you asked Brittany to be your girlfriend was a day you hated yourself, but this is a different kind of struggle. You realize that what you're fighting now makes high school seem easy.

"We can go back, okay?" Brittany offers gently, but you suddenly frown when she takes your hand and starts to straighten up, "…come on, I'll take you home."

"Wait…n-no," you stutter, moments later shutting your eyes to concentrate, "No…it's not…it's not that."

"Okay," she says comfortingly, reaching both hands out to stroke your arms.

You think you should tell her about it, about what you're scared of exactly but then there's a whole other part of you screaming to keep quiet. It would be easier if you weren't so split down the middle; half of you wanting the help that everybody offers, especially Brittany's, but the other half of you rejecting and fighting off all the opportunities to make it better.

"I…don't," you struggle again, finding that this fear is going out of its way to make it as difficult as possible for you. You don't even finish your sentence because of it.

"What is it?" she asks gently, "You can talk to me."

The quiet smile that forms on her lips reminds you of that fact more than her words do. Brittany is different than others in the sense that you _can _talk to her without feeling the constant paranoia that she'll spread a secret or start a rumor or judge you. In high school, where that was every student's favorite thing to do, Brittany stood out being the only person who had better priorities.

You peer up at her, reconfirming for yourself that it's okay to tell her this small part of your fear—tonight's fear. It seems like every night you have a different one, and sometimes they're new but other times, they're recycled. If you got the choice to eliminate one version—to stop getting new ones or to stop getting the old ones—you wouldn't know which because you don't know what's scarier; something you've never seen before…or something you have.

"I can't, uh…" you start to say, pausing to take a breath, "Britt…last night, it was nice but I'm not…r-ready to…do anything."

Her eyes widen immediately, "Wha…wait, no, no…Santana, I'm not…this isn't me trying to…"

You watch the way she tries to put together a response and it easily proves that she wasn't thinking about _that _either. Brittany sighs and sinks in her stance, a guilty expression forming on her face that makes your gut wrench. You know Brittany isn't the kind of girl to rush you into something you don't want to do. After having that small panic attack when it was as small as a _kiss_, you know she knows better than to think you're ready for anything physically intimate.

"Santana…I-I…" she tries again, shaking her head and pulling away, "I wasn't trying to…make something happen, I was just…"

"I know," you sigh, and take a step closer to her, "I-I just need you to know."

She nods gently, "I'm sorry. We won't do anything…at all, unless…I mean, until you want to."

Without really thinking, you gain back the distance by sliding your arms through hers and walking into her body. You press your hands against her back and stand on your toes, resting your chin on her shoulder. Not immediately, but a few seconds later, Brittany's body reciprocates the embrace as you feel her envelope you closer. Her arms wrap around your neck, warmth spreading across your fronts as they press together lushly. You feel her body relax, her muscles loosen, her breath escape in a relieved sigh. Sometimes you wonder whether the effect you have on her is similar to the one she has on you, but in moments like these, where you get to_ feel_ her reaction, you stop wondering and just _know_ that she feels the same way.

She shifts, tightening her grip around you as her head buries into your shoulder. You know she feels horrible now because of what you accused her of so you're trying to fix that, to bring her back to one piece. Funny how you can barely pull yourself together yet you can muster enough strength to help Brittany whenever she's the slightest bit down. That's how it has always worked between you and her and the simplest explanation for it is that you care more about keeping Brittany as the beautiful person she is than you do about keeping yourself together. Maybe it isn't the healthiest way to be in a relationship but it's what you've always known.

"You mean…everything to me," you confess in a small whisper towards her ear.

"Yeah, me too," she says, mumbling against your shoulder.

Her lazy voice seeps into your body, spreading warmth throughout your system. You start to break off from her and pull away so your faces come in front of each other. You keep your hands joined at the small of her back but she lets go and unwraps her arms so she's gently holding your forearms. Her eyes peer into yours, the smallest hint of a smile tickling the corners of her lips. When will you ever get tired of looking at her? Probably never. She's the kind of image you wouldn't mind seeing every day for the rest of your life, like a painting hung up on the wall across your bed except so much better because she's real, she's a person, she moves, she speaks, she loves, and she feels.

"It's not because of…b-because of you, okay?" you add, your voice growing softer at each word, "This is me."

She takes in your confession, dealing with it the only way she knows how: by turning it into something she loves about you. Her eyes shift to admire the features of your face; your jaw, your hairline, your lips. Brittany reaches up and straightens out your hair with the most delicate touches, tucking strands behind both your ears. Her smile spreads and even though it isn't a full one, its half way there, more so than before. Actually, you quite like these smiles. They make the butterflies multiply in your stomach because she looks too in love with you to even finish her own thoughts. She leans in, aiming to place a kiss on your forehead but you pull back slightly and realign yourself so that she will catch your lips instead. You blink slowly as if ready to close your eyes and start dreaming. She blinks too, softly and gracefully, and lets the smile grow warmer before meeting you halfway to press a light kiss on your lips. It's over before you can really grasp it but she lingers so close afterwards that her proximity is enough to cloud your mind.

You spend a few more lasting moments in her arms, absorbing all the warmth she offers until the peaceful air is interrupted by the ruffling of keys and the door swinging open. Before you can open your eyes and see what the noise is, a force bumps into you and Brittany, causing you both to stumble backwards and eventually separate.

"Whoah, sorry!" a man says but soon enough you recognize the bleach blonde hair and goofy grin. He notices Brittany first before turning to you and widening his eyes, "…S-Santana?"

"Sam," Brittany says through a quick breath, flustered, "W-wha…hey, what…uh, where are you off to?"

"We're…out of chocolate milk," he says slowly before turning back to you, "Wow, Santana. Hey? How…um, it's been, it's been a while."

You swallow roughly, trying to stay clear of the lust that fogs up your mind, "Uh…Sam, hey."

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and smiles goofily, "How are ya?"

You nod, stealing a glance towards Brittany. Her hand falls to her side and reaches for yours, lacing your fingers together. You didn't even know that that was something you needed her to do. Those kinds of gestures are the most rewarding; the ones that you didn't think of before, the ones you never asked for, yet the ones that once they're made, make you feel the most complete, the most secure. Brittany always picks the perfect moments to give you those. Or maybe she doesn't really pick, maybe she just knows. Either way, you have a little bit more strength to put together the best fake response you can think of.

"Yeah, fine…" you say with a nod and pressed smile, feeling the words coat themselves with inaccuracies, "Uh, how are you?"

"Good," he answers with a wide grin, glancing between the two of you for a split second, "Uhm, well I'll leave you guys to it."

He sends a single nod and grin before starting down the hallway, ruffling his keys back into the pocket of his jacket. Brittany bows her head, her hand reaching up to rub her forehead in what appears to be a bashful gesture. She smiles shyly and shakes her head but for the first time, it doesn't make you feel so good. Suddenly, instead of admiring how adorable she looks, you're stealing a glance at the boy walking down the hallway and another one back at Brittany with your mind putting together pieces of a puzzle you don't even want to think about. You don't ever remember Brittany and Sam being this close. Well, to be fair, you had her pretty much 24/7 during senior year so neither of you were interested in other people. You always pushed away these kinds of thoughts but now it's almost inevitable because they're right in front of you. Thinking about Brittany being with someone else is gut wrenching enough and seeing it is just a little more than you can handle.

"Santana?" she says, interrupting your thoughts as you suddenly peer up at her. She searches you momentarily before giggling at how lost in the moment you are, "I asked if you…wanted to go inside?"

You must have missed the question completely the first time. She looks at you hopefully, like she expects so much from you, but its making you nauseous. Brittany knows the girl you used to be like the back of her hand but she doesn't know you. She thinks she does but that's only because she doesn't know the reason for all of this, all of this damage. This could be cleared up if you could just tell her about it but then again you have to keep in mind that that's a lot easier to say than it is to do. You're not struggling because you've lost trust in Brittany; you're struggling because you've lost trust…everywhere, with everybody. Brittany is the closest thing to someone you can depend on, someone you could give your life to, but even then, you can't help but be self conscious and guarded. And at the end of the day, that insecurity is what tears you apart.

"Um…Britt, I…" you start to say, avoiding her eye contact because you would have hated to see her face fall and eyes fill with worry. You stuff your hands into your coat pockets, "I should…I should go."

"Are you sure?" she asks, bending down to catch your eyes and draw them up. Even though you try, she just doesn't let you get away so easily.

You swallow hardly and peer at her, "Yeah…um…its late…I should go anyways."

There is a hint of sadness in her eyes but you can tell that she's trying not to let it show so significantly. You wish you could stay but it just isn't something your body wants you to do. It's easy to tell, more so than it was before, when something is wrong or scary or moving too fast because your body starts to react. Sometimes it'll be a twist in your stomach. Sometimes it'll be a panic attack in your chest. And sometimes, it'll even feel like your flesh is being turned inside out, but you haven't felt that one in a while. It isn't about not wanting to be with her. It's about the fact that you don't think you or your body could handle more time with her tonight. It's all a little scary, to be honest.

"Hey…" Brittany says softly, waiting until you look at her, "…did I…do something?"

You stand upright, shaking your head, "No…no, it's…"

The words play around on your tongue until you give up and sigh, confused about what you wanted to tell her. She didn't do anything wrong. Sure, the interaction between her and Sam got you thinking but for any normal person, anyone who _isn't _you, it would be something easily dismissed. Instead, it made you insecure which, if you think about it, doesn't make any sense because Brittany has been nothing but amazing with you so far and yet you can't give her the benefit of the doubt. You know you shouldn't feel this way because she told you, clearly, that there isn't anything going on between her and Sam, but why does it bother you then?

"San…I'm," she starts again, more worried than before as she extends to hold your arms, "I'm sorry…I didn't…want you to think I planned something for tonight. It was just…I don't know, I thought you'd—"

"Brittany," you breathe out, closing your eyes so that you don't have to look at her when you continue, "Don't think that any of this…the way I...react to things…don't think that it's you."

She shifts her weight to one side, "Sorry. At least let me take you home?"

You smile softly, "I already took you home, what's the point in that?"

Brittany searches your eyes and nods gently, weakly, before smiling into a sigh. She reaches up to cup your face and pulls you in so she can press a kiss to your forehead. It melts several of the shaky movements in your body and you're thankful for that because you were beginning to feel uneasy. Brittany steps back and increases the distance between the two of you, tucking a final strand of loose hair behind your ear.

"It's okay to not be okay," she tells you with a soft smile, before stepping back and detaching from you completely, "Don't forget that."

It's okay to not be okay. The words make you sigh heavily when they process inside. You knew that already but somehow, when Brittany says it, you might actually believe it this time. The world, everybody out there, expects so much from everyone. We create stigmas and standards and encourage the idea of 'saving face' more than the expression of what we truly feel. The messed up thing about that is; most people would go out of their way to demonstrate strength that they know they don't even have when in reality; it would save so much energy if they just dealt with what was actually there. That's exactly what you do. Disregarding the time you spent as Brittany's girlfriend,—because you're convinced it was the highest point of your existence—that is exactly what you've been doing your whole life.

"Thank you," you sigh, "For tonight."

She nods, smiling warmly, "Anytime."

You breathe out and press your lips together in a tight line, nodding once before turning away. As you begin walking, a curse fires with every step because you're so stupid and you should just stay with her but you know you can't and your whole head is like a messy room, clothes piled up everywhere, items on the ground, bed sheets disheveled.

"Let me know when you get home, okay?" she calls out. You turn around and start walking backwards slowly, nodding to her clearly before returning to face the other way.

You get to the bottom of the steps and push the heavy door open; reentering the city you had escaped. The cold breeze makes you shiver, the loud engines drain out all other sounds, people walk by in pairs, or alone, or in groups. You pause and take a deep breath of fresh air and blowing it out again. Just as you turn and begin to walk, you spot Sam walking towards you in the near distance. You freeze, watching him look up from the ground and meet your eyes. He smiles pleasantly and speeds up a little to get to you faster.

"Santana!" he calls out, "Hey, you're not staying?

Your throat tightens even though you've broken out of the shock, "Uh, no…no it's late. I gotta get home. Did you…wait, you're back already?"

"Oh, oh okay," Sam says, nodding as he lifts up a plastic bag, "And yeah, just a quick trip. The drug store is right around the corner."

"What?" you say, eyes widening at the mention.

He eyes you strangely, turning to look behind him and pointing with his thumb, "Uh…the drug store? Duane Reade? It's…it's just around the corner so it didn't take long."

Your head jerks out initially before you shake it and force out a chuckle, "Oh, hah, right."

"Are you okay?" he asks, reaching out to place a hand on your arm, "You seem…a little, I don't know, confused."

Your hand twitches at your side only to remember that Brittany's isn't there to hold. You'd kill for her comfort right now, even though it was _your _decision to leave. Your thoughts spend too much time thinking about Brittany and the past few minutes that you forget what Sam had asked you. When you tune back into him, you notice his expecting look, waiting for an answer just like everybody else. It's the same look of concern that Quinn wears, that Tina wears, that even Brittany wears sometimes but she doesn't make you feel as pitied. It makes you sick now, that look, because all you can think about is how weak you are and how everybody around you is probably thinking about how much you've changed and what went wrong. Your lips mouth a few silent letters but you can't seem to find anything worthy of saying. Luckily, Sam must have realized that.

He clears his throat, "Or, heh, maybe it's just me. I mean, it has been, what, two years?"

"Yeah," you say nervously, pressing your lips together and shoving your hands further into your jacket pockets.

"So you and Brittany again?" he wonders, smiling sheepishly.

"Uhh…" you hesitate, now _really _wishing Brittany was next to you, "We're…I mean, I guess."

"That's good," he says, chuckling quietly, "Brittany has…well, she's really missed you. I'm glad you guys are together again. I mean, you've always…I don't know, made her really, really happy."

Your throat swells. Did he have to say that? You feel worse now about the fact that you can't give her what she wants. That has always been one of your greatest fears, and you can even argue that it still is despite everything that's happened. Brittany deserves someone who does two things: knows what they have when they have her and shows that they know it. That's the key part; the showing. You may know that when you have Brittany, you no doubt have the best thing in this world, but you can't come through in the second department; giving her proof that you know. At least not now you can't, maybe you once did before.

Sam clicks his tongue before pressing his palms together, "Alright, well um…I better head back up, check on Britt, get these babies in the fridge."

He brushes past you when a sudden thought appears. Sam is going to be there for Brittany more than you are most likely. He seems more stable, more of a support than you can be. It upsets you, disappoints you even, that you can't be what she really needs so the least you can do is make sure she still gets it.

"Sam," you call out, turning around.

"Yup?" he responds, facing you again.

You regain the steps you lost and take a deep breath, eyes watching the ground until you reach him again. You wish you didn't have to say this because ideally, if you and Brittany are in a relationship, you're supposed to be the one to…take care of her. You have always felt that that was your job and you're always going to do it the best you can but the problem is; your best isn't as good as someone else's anymore.

"Um…I care about…Brittany. A lot," you begin, meeting his eyes, "...but you're with her more than…more than I am so I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure…but, Santana, I'm no you," he says with a shrug, "Whatever I do…it won't be as meaningful."

"You have to try then," you tell him.

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" Sam asks, worried.

Another one. You hate that question. You'd give anything to not hear it again today or tomorrow or the rest of this week.

"Just keep her safe," you say, straight to the point, "Take her places she'll have fun. Keep her happy, okay?"

"But isn't that your job? I mean, you do all of that already," he says.

"I don't," you say with a final sigh, "So please just…do that, okay?"

He chews on his bottom lip, contemplating what you've just asked of him. You don't expect any of it to make sense, especially since he has no idea how different you are from the last time he saw you.

"Uh gosh, alright, yeah of course," he agrees but still seems confused about it.

"Thanks," you say, pressing your lips together before turning back around.

"Santana," he calls out and you twist to face him again, "You're not...leaving somewhere are you?"

"What?" you says in surprise, "No...no, I'm not...going anywhere, I just...look just, please just keep her happy, Sam."

He nods, and you turn around again to leave. You don't know how long he stood there after you left because you turned a corner without looking back. Your arms cross over your chest to keep warmth around you during your walk back. You hate yourself right now. Having to ask someone else to do something you _know _you should be doing; it makes you sick. The plea lingers on your tongue bitterly, like a bad aftertaste. You feel so uncomfortable in your own skin right now, like it belongs to someone else entirely. Remember that feeling of having your flesh turned inside out. Well, you almost wish you hadn't thought about it earlier because now the sensation has come back. It feels like being decontaminated, stripped and skinned of the rotten only to find more rotten underneath.

Knowing you'll regret it later; you pull out your phone from your pocket and search a few contacts. When you find the one you want, you choose to send a message. Your fingers feel heavy as you type.

"_Busy? I need a hit."_

You shake your head as you start walking, waiting for the reply. Immediately, you coated with a layer of dirty or grime and although you could make it go away by not doing it, but—ding, ding.

"_My place?" – J. _

You blow out a steady breath of air and respond.

"_5 minutes."_

The coke, the drugs; they're the closest thing you have to an escape. You know that you should be smarter and stop looking for ways out but sometimes; you just really fucking need one, even if it's temporary. Ideally, if it was possible, you'd run. Run and run and run and run. Sometimes, you think you want to run forever, or until the last part of earth, but then you realize that you'd still be in the same place as where you started. Running is a distraction, not a solution. After all, what is the point in running when what you're running from is the devil on your back?

* * *

"I'm back!" Sam calls out as he steps into the apartment, eyes focusing at a low level. When he finally closes the door and looks up to place the plastic bag on the kitchen counter, he notices Brittany over by the screen door of the balcony overlooking the city. He frowns and slowly pulls out the three containers of chocolate milk, studying her simultaneously, "Britt?"

Her head drops and a hand comes up to her face, as if wiping a tear. Sam maneuvers his way out of the kitchen and over to Brittany, leaving whatever he was doing behind. He approaches her slowly and once he's close enough, waits for Brittany to say something or respond in some way. She only presses her lips into a tight line but Sam can tell how they tremble, how her eyes fill quickly with tears.

"What's wrong?" he asks, finding himself at the hand of two distressed women today.

Brittany shakes her head, coughing out a single sob before attempting to smile and wipe her tears, "No…it's nothing, don't worry about it."

"You know I can't do that," Sam reminds her, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. She returns to the view and admires it a little longer, maybe gathering her thoughts or maybe just appreciating the beauty of the city. Whatever she does, it's enough to help her figure out what she wants to say.

"Santana has been my best friend for thirteen years, Sam," she says, turning to face Sam, "_Thirteen _years."

"Okay," he nods, "So what's the matter?"

"…I can't…find her," she confesses, a lonely tear dripping down her cheek.

Sam frowns in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Brittany sucks in a desperate breath, or sounded more like a sob. Worry pours over him, as it always does when Brittany is in trouble, and he doesn't waste anymore time. Sam reaches out for her arms and strokes them, hoping to get a clearer explanation from her about why she's so upset. Brittany keeps her face hidden for the moment and Sam doesn't do anything to pressure her. He's gotten to know Brittany so well in the past years that he knows things like what to say and what not to say when she's feeling down.

"Britt, hey," he says softly, "Are things not going well between the two of you?"

She sniffs and sinks a little further into her stance before lifting her head up to face him. Sam finds her swollen red eyes and feels his stomach shift uncomfortably. Seeing anyone sad is a drag for him but when it comes to Brittany, it's more of a fear than a feeling of concern. He loves her because she's so optimistic and fun and beautiful, so to see all of that buried in sadness is frightening.

"It's n-not her," Brittany reveals in a watery voice, shrugging before giving up and falling into Sam's body. He quickly wraps his arms around her and holds tightly, tilting his head to one side so Brittany can hide her face in his shoulder. Sam strokes her back gently, attempting to calm her shaking body.

"Santana?" he asks, still hugging her tightly. She nods and he tries to fit a few puzzle pieces together for a better understanding of watch she's talking about.

It makes slight sense to see Brittany upset after the conversation he had with Santana downstairs. Sam still isn't sure what that was about but he can begin to see the reason for Santana's request. While he has no idea, he understands that something must be going on in Santana's life and it must be interfering with their relationship. He didn't really pay enough attention to Santana in high school, despite the fact that she was his girlfriend for a couple weeks, in order to gain that ability to suspect when something is profoundly wrong. He hasn't heard about Santana either so really, he doesn't have the slightest clue as to what the problem could be. All Sam can do is remember what Santana asked and try to pull through. She obviously had a good reason because if there's one thing Sam does know about Santana, or the old her at least, it's that she doesn't show weakness. When a vulnerable moment like that, like asking for help, comes along then it must be a damn serious thing.

"What do you mean it's not her?" he asks worriedly, still trying to get Brittany to talk through this. She pulls away and detaches herself from him, backing up into a wall.

"S-Something happened to her and I…I," she confesses calmly before feeling the lump swallow her throat and the rest of the sentence come out in tears, "I-I don't know what happened to h-her."

Brittany tosses her arms up and lets them fall to her sides in defeat and a little bit of panic, "And I try…I keep trying to be patient and stay strong and keep my composure but I'm scared, Sam, I'm scared something is seriously wrong and I can't ask her to tell me, I don't want her to get upset, I don't want to force her but it's killing me to see her like this, I can't—"

"Alright, come here, shh," Sam hushes, catching Brittany's arms to pull her into his body for another embrace, "Come on, you're okay."

"I can't," she cries, words muffling against his shoulder.

He grips the back of her neck firmly to keep her from struggling too much, to keep her grounded, "She's okay."

"No…no," Brittany sobs, wrapping her hands around Sam even tighter, emerging from his neck, "No you don't understand, she's gone, or she's lost. It's like something took her soul but her body is still there."

"Shh, hey okay okay," Sam tries again, "Listen to me…"

Sam breaks away and steps back, reaching both hands up to wipe the tears from Brittany's stained face. He tucks loose strands behind her ears and cradles her jaw as tenderly as he knows how.

"If I remember high school correctly, Santana is a strong…strong girl," he explains confidently.

"No, Sam, I know that," Brittany argues quietly, "I know everything about eighteen year old Santana, I have her memorized. I _know _that girl and that's the problem…_none _of what I remember is there anymore."

Sam sighs, searching Brittany's desperate grey eyes. He's never seen her like this before, distraught and terrified out of her mind. Brittany has always held together well, at least in front of people. There have been times where she's broken down around Sam and he's learned how to deal with that, but this is different kind of breakdown. It isn't just an emotional one, it's mental, physical too. Sam doesn't know what's going on with Santana so he isn't going to try and understand right now. All he really knows what to do is remind Brittany of something important.

"Brittany, do you remember why you broke up with me?" Sam asks carefully.

She frowns incredibly, shaking her head, "What? Sam? That has nothing to do with—"

"Do you remember?" he interrupts, forcing her to think. Brittany pauses, mind sorting through the files of her memory to recall the reason.

"You broke with me because you said it wasn't fair for me. Because you said you were always going to be in love Santana," Sam explains, answering his own question.

"Why are you telling me this?" Brittany asks quietly.

"Because," Sam says, smiling thoughtfully, "You were sure enough of that to decide that you didn't want anybody else. You've been sure of that girl since you were, what, ten years old?"

"Eight," Brittany murmurs.

"Eight years old," Sam chuckles, "Look, Britt, I don't really know how Santana has changed so I can't tell you what to do about it, but I don't need to. You know what to do. You've spent you're life with Santana, you _know _what to do. Stop looking for a key to figure it all out. You don't need one."

"You think I should just ask her?" Brittany wonders.

"No, I think you need to realize that Santana probably trusts you more than anyone and if she can't tell _you_ something," Sam suggests, "…then maybe she's not the one controlling what is said and what isn't said."

Brittany shakes her head slowly, eyes staring into space. Sam might be right. Giving her time and space can't be the solution. Time and space would have fixed it by now, wouldn't one think? Time and space would have at least given her something to work with, at least something to get used to but that's the problem here. Santana never got past it, never got used to it; whatever _it _is. She's still in some sort of trapped state of shock, like paralysis except of the mind rather than the body. Time and space can't be the solution because time and space are where her demons live; the ones that control her. She's surrounded by something. She's trapped. She can't get out.

"She…_can't…_tell me," Brittany begins, her breath slowing down and calming as thought after thought come together, "…Oh my god, Sam…that's it, she _can't _tell me."

Brittany stays frozen in the wake of her realization for a few more seconds before sniffing and wiping her face quickly. She leans in and kisses Sam on the cheek before grabbing her coat off the back of the couch and making her way to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks, turning around.

"I have to talk to her," Brittany explains as she sticks her hands through the sleeves, "It makes sense now, Sam. She's been telling me she can't, she can't, all this time, I can't believe I didn't see it sooner."

"So what?" he asks, "Are you just gonna ask her or…I mean what's your plan? Like you said, you can't force her."

"I don't know," she answers, sniffling, "I don't know but I have to find a way to get her to tell me, to make her see that she doesn't have to feel trapped anymore."

"It's 10:30pm, Britt," Sam warns, "Why don't you sleep on it? Think about it a little longer so that you don't regret anything.

"I can't," she answers simply with a shrug, "I've wasted too much time."

Sam isn't going to go out of his way to stop her from doing what she's determined to do. Not that he could, Brittany is pretty strong and stubborn when it comes to Santana.

"Okay, alright," he says, "But it's late, Brittany. Please be careful."

"I'll be fine, Sam. They don't live far," she tells him.

"Right, she and Tina," he remembers, walking back into the kitchen to tend to the abandoned chocolate milk containers.

"Yeah, and Quinn," Brittany adds before twisting the doorknob and opening the door.

"Wait what?" Sam says suddenly.

"What?"

"Qui—nevermind. Just go. Go but be safe!" Sam says.

Brittany shuts the door behind her and continues down the hallway, pulling out her phone to check for the notification that Santana got home safely. No messages, no calls. She pulls up her contacts and dials Santana, pressing the phone to her ear as she hurries down the stairs. The rings continue for longer than what Santana normally answers at.

"Come on, come on, pick up," Brittany begs under her breath as she steps out onto the street. The call ends with no answer but she tries again.

* * *

Home is only about three minutes away. You took that short detour to your friend's place, just a couple minutes. You had to. The thoughts were getting…dangerous, threatening. You figured it wouldn't hurt considering it's been about a day or two—right?—since your last dose. You wanted that disgust churning inside your stomach to melt or dissolve or just disappear entirely. Above all, you just wanted to feel a little lighter, a little less…burdened with your past, with your present, with everything. Things are easier to look at when you're somewhere high. Imagine a hot air balloon. Living there would be nice, swell, carefree, always in the clouds. What goes wrong in the clouds? Nothing. Maybe you could have that someday, the clouds. You know what must feel like clouds? Pillows. You'd kill for a pillow to lie on, to cuddle with, to sink into. Nothing feels as good as pillows do.

Wait no. She does. She does, she does. You could lie on her, cuddle with her, sink into her, all the same as a pillow but a pillow can't hold you back. She can hold you, softly, sweetly.

BEEP.

The horn shatters your daydream. You can see your block from here. It's about a minute away, thank god. You're really dizzy but you're hoping that it's mostly because of the fast cars and the people passing by. In other words, you tell yourself that you're actually just a little tiny bit dizzy and the environment is just making it appear worse. The coke has been in your system for about ten minutes now but it's only just kicking in. For safety and smart reasons, you should have stayed at the friend's place but you promised Brittany you'd tell her when you got home and it's been about fifteen minutes since you left and you still haven't notified her. Where is your phone anyways? You check your pockets and pull it out, finding difficulty with unlocking it and maneuvering it at all. You decide to forget about it and check when you're sober.

The drugs never used to make you this nauseous before though. In the beginning stages, it would get you excited and happy and light. You still get that sometimes but rarely and for the shortest periods. It feels like the first five minutes of the high are the best moments and then the remaining ten or fifteen are the dreading, lagging, angry, restless symptoms. If that's the case, you've already wasted the first four minutes of your best moment. It's going to start feeling like hell in sixty seconds.

Sixty.

You start walking again but find yourself stumbling, losing balance temporarily. When you finally stabilize yourself, you glance in front and behind you for no apparent reason that you're aware of right now. You aren't really worried about getting lost because you've made your way back home in worse states than this. Plus, you can practically see your apartment building.

Fifty.

You cross the last street but barely make it to the other end before the light turns red. People keep passing you and you assume it's because they're in a rush but then you realize that there's a good chance you're just walking incredibly slow. Either way, you continue on to the front of your building, fighting off the strange dots that start poking at the boundaries of your vision.

Forty.

The door feels so much heavier than you remember it being. So much that pushing it open feels like trying to move a boulder ten times your size. It slams loudly behind you, shattering your ear drums enough to make you wince in pain. Your eyes shut and you press your hands against your ears to cover them from any other significant noises.

Thirty.

You drag yourself up the stairs. Step. S..te..p. S…t…e…p. The steps take longer time and more energy the farther you get up. This is the worst you've ever felt on a rush. Are these the normal symptoms? You don't even feel your body working. You're extremely lightheaded. You almost feel like a spirit watching your lifeless body trying to survive but failing miserably.

Twenty.

Somehow, you make it up. Somehow, you get to the top and start down the hallway. You breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. You stand up tall; widen your eyes because they feel three quarters closed. Someone opens their door and leaves their apartment, nodding to you with a smile. You nod back, or…well, at least you think you do. It doesn't matter. He's gone now.

Ten.

Too many keys, which one do you need? You spread them all out on the key ring, searching until you find it and stick it into the door. You open it and step inside when…

"Santana!"

Huh? You glance up and find Quinn behind the counter and Tina sitting down on a stool. Did they call you?

Five.

No, they didn't but someone did. Tina stands and Quinn steps towards you, noticing something terribly wrong. The voice though. It sounds like—"

Zero.

"Brittany?" Tina says in surprise and you turn around to find Brittany gripping the door frame.

"I'm sorry…hi guys, sorry, I just…" she apologizes, closing the door behind her, "I just…needed to talk to Santana."

Your eyes widen and breathing escalates. For the first time in a while, you can feel your heart again. It's fiercer than ever but in a dangerous way, not in the way that it beats when it beats for Brittany. It escalates by the minute and suddenly, a wave of unknown energy knocks against you, causing you to wobble and stumble back a step.

"Whoah, whoah," Brittany says, rushing to your side and gripping your arm, "Hey, you okay?"

Sounds and movements do not match up and the part of your brain that recognizes voices and assigns them to a person stops working too. You might as well have gone deaf because you see lips moving but the sound coming later and from a different direction and none of it really makes sense. The only thing you can hear is your heart catapulting itself against your chest every few seconds.

"Is she drunk?"

"No," you blurt out, shutting your eyes.

"She can't be, she left my apartment like fifteen minutes ago," Brittany explains.

"She doesn't smell like alcohol."

Was that Tina?

"Check her eyes."

Your eyes? Huh?

"What?" Brittany asks.

"She's so pale."

"Santana? Look at me," someone says firmly.

At who? What? A hand forces your chin up into some direction and moments later you're staring into harsh hazel eyes. Quinn. Okay, you're with Quinn but you don't like these eyes. She's staring at you suspiciously, investigating you like a crime.

"Shit."

What did she say? Is something wrong with your eyes? Then you remember; _Examine the eyes and pupils. _

"What? What?" Tina says worriedly.

"Santana…babe, look at me."

At who? Wait, again? Look at who, who are you looki—oh. These eyes are better, kinder. They're pretty and blue with taints of grey. They are all that you pay attention to.

"Hold her Britt, make sure she doesn't fall."

"What are you doing?"

"Santana, hey, keep your eyes open," Brittany directs.

"Checking her bag."

"Quinn, that's her privacy."

"Oh my god."

"What?"

Silence. No, you don't want silence. You glance down and realize that Quinn is holding the baggie of cocaine, the distinctive white powder that bleeds into your veins right this very second. In fact, you think it might have all gone straight to your brain cells because something is wrong. Everything is out of place and all you want is for someone to speak. Someone! Keep talking, say something. _Lost? _No, no, no not him, not him. Please not him.

"Is that cocaine?" someone asks.

"What the fuck, Santana?"

"Hey!" Brittany shouts, protecting you.

You reach up and press your palms against your eyes. _It's crowded out there, huh? _No, no, come on, not now.

"Get out," you whisper under your breath, nobody hears.

"Oh come on, Britt. She's doing drugs, you can't defend her."

Brittany? No, is Brittany here? You can't remember. You tear your hands away from your eyes and try to find her again, squinting to make it all less blurry.

"Wait," you mutter quietly, wobbling a little.

"I can't believe this. We've been worried about you all this time and you've been going off getting high?" Quinn yells, throwing the baggie onto the ground.

"Quinn," you breathe out and attempt to stand straight but feel a rush of warmth in the middle of your face.

"Oh no, she's bleeding," Tina says in panic.

"I'll call 911, Britt, please help her," Quinn advises harshly, still furious.

A force, not from Quinn, leans you against the nearest wall. Your back hits against it, causing you to let out a huff as air escapes from your lungs. You can taste the metallic bitterness of your own blood dripping from your nose to your lip to your tongue.

"San?" she says and you turn to face Brittany. Yes, you can see her. You can see her a little more clearly but she looks devastated, "Stay still, okay?"

"Here, tissues," someone offers.

You keep your eyes locked on Brittany's and feel the last bit of your conscious tell the rest of your body to feel like complete shit, to feel like you've ruined it all. She's crying because of you, isn't she? Her red eyes, swollen cheeks, all because of you.

"Yeah, I need an ambulance."

"Brittany, you said she had a nosebleed before right?"

"Uhh," Brittany responds shakily, "Yeah, yeah."

"But you didn't know about the drugs."

You feel a cool material wipe across your upper lip and nose. Red fills your vision momentarily before it disappears and there's more cleaning. There are too many other voices and none of them coming from Brittany. Her lips don't move except to tremble_. We met before, uhm, earlier. _

"Get out," you beg quietly as your eyes shut, feeling more warmth gush down your face but in the form of tears from your eyes rather than blood from your nose.

"What is she saying?" Brittany asks worriedly, "Santana, who are you talking to?"

_Me. She's talking to me._ You gasp and it kick starts your breathing pattern into a rapid rhythm. Each is like a pant, your throat swelling by the second to emit the sound of air scraping in and out. You tilt your head back, trying to loosen the pathway in your throat.

"No, no, no, Santana look at me. Keep your eyes open," Brittany instructs before turning to someone else, "I need more tissues, the bleeding hasn't stopped."

"Wait wait, hold on," someone says from a distance but the voice grows a little, "No...no she's not having seizure...right, okay, so keep her standing? alright, okay thank you."

"What did they ask?"

"The medics will be here soon. They asked if she was overdosing."

"What?" you hear Brittany gasp, "No, no, she's not, she's not."

"She's not. She's having...I think it's a panic attack, or something and the drugs are just making it worse."

"Santana," Brittany's voice comes through again, "Open your eyes."

"Brit…" you start to say but find that your words fall apart immediately, like they're just melting off the edge of your tongue. Your stomach cringes, your heart explodes in your chest, and a rush sprints through your head, throwing your world wildly off balance.

"Whoah, hey, hey, Santana!"

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, knees buckle, body collapses, and then it's quiet. You could be anywhere now. Anywhere you'd like.

* * *

**A/N: Well :/ Um, the last part is supposed to be confusing and broken up so if you're lost, I just advise you to read it over again. Just put yourself in Santana's position and remember that she can't really put two and two together in her current state so things are just being said across the board. Except Brittany. She can identify Brittany. Anyways, sorry for such a long wait but the truth is, I was planning for either this chapter or the next one to be the climax of something happening to Santana and the rest of you guys finding out so I wanted to think a bout it as much as possible. I think it's quite clear what happened to her but I won't say it. The reviews have been pretty common as to what people think happened and in this chapter, it should really be clear. Hopefully this didn't freak people out too much to stop reading. I told you that this story was going to involve drugs and I guess I should have mentioned other mature themes but I didn't want to spoil it. And even though you practically know, this story isn't going to end soon. I'm planning on carrying it out for a while, because they're still the whole healing process. And just so I don't get any reviews or question about this, I'm not even going to keep it hidden: Santana does not die now nor in this fic. **

**Thank you all again for reading. Thanks you to all the new story followers during this mini hiatus I took, wow thank you so much xx I'm getting a few big assignments out of the way by Friday so I'm actually hoping that my schedule will clear up. Won't make any promises though seeing as those never last haha. Love you all and let me know your thoughts on this week's update xx **

**Disclaimer: The title of this chapter is from Ed Sheeran's "The A Team"**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: MY BIGGEST AND SINCEREST APOLOGIES ON THE LATENESS OF THIS CHAPTER PLEASE FORGIVE ME**

* * *

**Chapter 10: This Heart, It Beats**

Her foot taps anxiously, violently, against the tiled floor; the rapid, uneven noises echoing in the emptiness of the bright hallway. Her knuckles have turned white, fingers laced together so tightly as if she's holding on for her life. It feels that way; life or death. No past experience has measured up to the tension in between her bones, muscles, in between her thoughts and gaps in the mind. Her throat feels swollen, eyes too, chest too. Her entire body is numb, which terrifies her because it's the one thing she knows how to control with complete grace and ease. There's none of that anymore; no peace, no serenity, not even with the deafening silence she is submerged in. Her thoughts are nothing short of a train wreck, or the aftermath of a natural disaster, debris from the last few hours piling up without organization. She's never been this lost before, this completely out of place, like something fundamental about her existence has been altered, messed with, broken.

It keeps crossing her mind; the stumbling, the falling, the blood. She shuts her eyes but while that may temporarily block out the images, it only strengthens the physical memory. It's worse now because she can feel it again rather than just watch it replay against the black canvases of her eyelids. Strange, isn't it? The talent our bodies have of reenacting the same set of emotions as a time before to remind ourselves of the experience. The way we can sometimes store our reactions like recorded cassettes. The unfortunate thing about physical memory is that we can't exactly be as selective with it as we can with mental memory. A pain that we once felt in our chest, a twist in our stomach, a swollen throat; these are all memories that burnt a little too deep into the flesh, a little too deep to disregard. And it just so inconveniently happens to be that the memories we ache to forget the most are the ones we may never rub off our grated skin. Sometimes we're stuck with them, like a terminal illness.

The new burn behind her eyes draws focus from the abstract world into reality like waking up from a nightmare, and the worst kind. How is it that we remember nightmares so clearly, so precisely, yet our dreams are constantly rolled up, placed in a bottle and tossed out to sea, lost in the depths of our imagination? The human mind works in the utmost mysterious ways, ironically in such that we will never be able to understand. She isn't even close to figuring out what she thinks about this. You'd assume it'd be simple, right? To know what you think. Well, not all the time and certainly not in a situation like this. She knows what she feels but she doesn't know what those feelings are trying to tell her. The scariest thing about this all, for her at least, is the fact that she can sit on this bench and feel and feel and feel but all of that feeling has blurred the idea of everything she thought she once knew.

Her bangs cover her vision, not that she has anywhere to look. It's just space that she's lost in; purely tainted space. Her eyelids feel heavy and dry, like she's been awake for days when in reality it has only been two hours of this at the most. To be fair, it has been two hours of the constant beating of her heart throbbing at the back of her head and at her temples. Two hours of not knowing how to respond or how to react. Two hours of not knowing how to just be.

She doesn't know how the other two are doing. In fact, she hasn't thought much about them at all. Her mind has been dedicated to one and only one thing. Whatever has gone on outside of that hasn't hit her, hasn't reached her. She has created barriers to steer away anything that doesn't belong to this field of thought. She doesn't know what they're thinking, Quinn and Tina, or how they're feeling. She may even go as far as to say she doesn't care, not right now at least. They, on the other hand, keep stealing glances from the other end of the hallway, checking up every five or so minutes to make sure she hasn't broken yet.

"Should we say something?" Tina asks quietly, leaning over to Quinn who sips tensely from her coffee.

"What are we supposed to say?" Quinn responds, peering towards her.

"Something. I don't know?" Tina says, twisting back to lean against the wall beside Quinn, "She looks…"

"Devastated," Quinn finishes, staring blankly in front of her before eventually turning to face Tina, "Can you blame her?"

"I'm not blaming her, Q," Tina objects, crossing her arms over her chest, "I just feel useless here. We're practically standing on opposite ends like enemies."

"I think she wants it this way," Quinn shrugs, "…for now."

Their heads twist to steal more glances down the long hallway to the end where she sits alone on a bench, bent over. They can hear the tapping of her foot and though it drives them crazy, like the scratching of a needle against glass, they aren't going to approach her. They wouldn't know what to say. All of the last two hours have been nothing but an inevitable waiting period: _"until we've run the tests and done the initial check up_". It's like a broken record to them now, all three of them. They just want to know the important part; the part where the doctors tell them that it'll all be fine and well. At least, they're hoping that _is _what the experts will say.

Tina studies the way Quinn's eyes seem lost, buried in a layer of darkness that is invisible to the real world. It only exists in her mind, her thoughts, along the journey of her intellectual spirit. Quinn doesn't show sympathy as often as Tina or Brittany. She's more like Santana in that sense; guarded. Except now, Quinn doesn't know if she can make that comparison between herself and her best friend anymore. The dynamics have shifted. She's worried about Santana more than anything but she can't ignore that feeling of loss; like while Santana may be alive and recovering, this experience has taken something significant away from their relationship. The ability to connect, to bond, and to share each other's lives.

"She's in good hands, Q," Tina says quietly, tilting her head out to catch Quinn's attention, "She'll…be okay."

"No, we don't know that," Quinn responds, slowly shaking her head back and forth, "We don't _know _anything."

Tina's lips part to say something but she is then confronted by the reality that Quinn is making a valid point. Neither of them has seen Santana since the ambulance took her away. Brittany was the one to immediately jump in the vehicle alongside her, but Quinn and Tina made their own way. When they arrived, the nurses said the doctors were working with her but that was it and led them to where they had sent Brittany too; the waiting area. They haven't received any news yet, good or bad. It's been two hours of attempting to be patient but eventually realizing that there is no such thing as patience in a situation like this.

"Ladies," a man interrupts politely, approaching both of them as they immediately push themselves off the wall, "Is one of you…Quinn Fabray?"

Quinn shares a look with Tina before proceeding, "Yeah, that's me."

"Hi, I'm Dr. Sanders, and you're the emergency contact according to Ms. Lopez's chart," he explains and reaches out for a handshake which Quinn gladly takes, "I know the wait has been stressful, but I assure you we are taking the best care of your friend."

"How is she?" Quinn asks, a little more nervous about the answer than she thought she was.

"She is…" he begins, but hesitates and suddenly the tension between them skyrockets, "…well, she's stable. For now."

Quinn frowns, inhaling deeply, "But…?"

He allows for a pregnant pause to intervene temporarily as he gathers his response. The wait makes Tina and Quinn more anxious than they think they've ever been.

"But," he begins again and the two girls feel a simultaneous explosion of worry and fear in their stomachs, "…she's not in good shape. The cocaine has posed risks for numerous lasting problems in her system and, assuming she consents, we need to run more tests to determine the extent of the damage. Regardless, she will need to undergo extensive therapy and rehabilitation. We'll be able to make further progress once she's awake and mentally responsive again, but considering the stress she has put her body under, it could be a while before she regains consciousness."

"So she hasn't woken up yet?" Tina asks, hoping for a simple answer after all that explanation.

"No," Dr. Sanders replies straightforwardly, "I'm afraid that's all the news I have."

They both let out heavy sighs, upset that they didn't hear better news. Their heads hang as they process it all and what it means for the future; theirs and Santana's.

Dr. Sanders offers a single nod before shifting his weight to one side and examining something in the distance behind Quinn, "Your friend, is she hurt?"

Quinn turns, looking over her shoulder to find Brittany still sitting with her face buried in her hands, "No…no she's fine, just worried like the rest of us."

"Of course," he says, removing the chart from under his arm and preparing to leave, "Take care, ladies. I'll have the nurse notify you about visiting hours."

"Thank you," Quinn says quietly, then watches the doctor return to his duties. She lets out another breath and turns to Tina only to find that she's about to start sobbing.

"No…no, Tina, don't," Quinn warns, not looking forward to calming her down because that's never an easy task with Tina.

"I'm sorry," Tina says, attempting to stop the tears before they fall, "I…just…what? Am I not allowed to cry? That's Santana in there."

Quinn folds her arms over her chest, eyeing the movement of other nurses and staff in the near distance, "I know. I know she's in there but at least she can still _be _somewhere. At least she didn't..."

She can't bring herself to say it, so Quinn lets her words trail off into a sigh instead. Tina sniffs and lowers her head, kicking the ground with the heel of her foot as the alternatively reality haunts her. Before it becomes too frightening, she pushes away the thoughts, any ideas that suggest something horrible happening to Santana.

"Listen," Quinn says, reaching to place a hand on Tina's arm, "Santana needs us. I don't know what the hell is going on with her but she needs us so we're going to be there for her. We can't break down. We have to be her support."

Tina nods, fighting off the tears as well as she can at the moment. She eventually looks up again, presses her lips together, and squints when the figure behind Quinn comes to her attention.

"We should tell her," Tina says, gesturing in Brittany's direction with a head nod. Quinn follows the hint and glances over her shoulder towards their isolated friend.

"Yeah…but you better do it," Quinn suggests, turning back with eyes falling to study the lid of her coffee cup, "She and I...I don't want to say something that might upset her."

Tina nods, dismissing the opportunity to deny the truth. Quinn and Brittany have always been friends but there are many times where they've been on separate pages, sometimes even separate chapters, of a situation. They are both strong individuals with strong opinions and that, in every case with two people like them, often rouses disagreements. For their current case, though, Quinn just doesn't want to end up saying something that will hurt Brittany. She isn't exactly sweet with words and with Brittany so fragile right now, she doesn't think she can pull off the whole supportive and kind, comforting friend; not for Brittany, not for anybody really.

Tina continues down the hallway, placing a hand on Quinn's arm temporarily as she brushes past. Her footsteps feel heavier as she walks further, her mind drawing together all the details she plans to tell Brittany when she reaches her. Once she's close enough, Tina notices not only the way Brittany's face hides behind her hands but also the way her fingers press deep into the sockets of her eyes. She stops in front of her, a few feet away, and clears her throat.

"Britt?" she says softly.

Brittany sniffs and pulls her hands away from her face, keeping her eyes hidden. Tina knows Brittany has been crying when she sees how she brushes her cheeks with the back of her hand and blows out a steady breath before looking up. She almost gasps when she notices the red in her eyes, like the blue and the white that once filled them before have been brutally murdered. Brittany glances behind Tina at Quinn in the distance before returning, wondering whether she had missed something important. She has blocked out everything in the past hour and she still feels disconnected with reality, like she's merely a floating guest in this world. Brittany studies Tina's composure and recognizes it as a reason not to panic, but a gut wrenching ache still lingers in her stomach.

"The doctor just came by," Tina informs her, pausing momentarily, "Santana is stable."

She wants to feel relief, to let go of that dark cloud of smoke in her chest but it doesn't disappear like she had hoped. Instead of responding, she nods subtly and sits upright to eventually fall back against the wall. Brittany stares at the white space in front of her, processing the information in her own timely manner. Things don't work as fast in her head as they do for others and she's learned how to cope with that. She gives herself enough time, reminds herself that she doesn't have to jump to uncertain conclusions just because everybody else is a faster thinker. She knows that there's a nest of anxious nerves in her stomach and a loud pulse pumping at her ears but she doesn't know what it means. She doesn't know if she's more scared or upset. If she's scared she doesn't know if she's scared of what could happen to Santana or of Santana in general. If she's upset she doesn't know if she's upset because she can't bear seeing Santana this way or because she can't believe whatSantana was doing that led up to all of this.

Why is it so difficult to process how she feels? Is it because it's Santana, because it's _her_ Santana, the love of her life; Santana? Maybe, most likely. Brittany assumes that's what is making everything so confusing, because she has known Santana for the most part of her life and moreover, she has known that she wants to _be _with her for that long too. When a change so significant, a shift so monumental occurs like this one, one that twists everything out of place so it becomes unrecognizable, it screws with her mind, with things she was once so sure of. Brittany doesn't want to think that she doesn't know Santana anymore. She doesn't want to walk into one of these sterile rooms, find Santana lying on the bed and suddenly not know who she's really looking at.

After moments of no response from Brittany, Tina shifts to sit down in the space beside her on the bench. She contemplates giving the girl a hug but reconsiders because Brittany might not want that right now, especially since she has chosen to isolate herself from the rest of the world until they let her see Santana. Instead, Tina spends a brief amount of time just being there, sitting quietly in case Brittany does want to say something before she continues with the details that the doctor explained for them. Brittany appreciates Tina's efforts to adjust to her pace of processing the matter but the silence eventually grows too uncomfortable and she'd rather Tina start talking or leave.

"He said there could be future problems from the damage that the…uh…drugs have done," Tina continues softly, "And that she is going to need therapy. But…he said she was stable, Britt."

Brittany presses her lips into a tight line and glances towards the ceiling, breathing in slowly to attempt to clear out the bad air in her lungs. Some of it is relieving, which is a good sign, but there's still something heavy pulling on her heart, on her stomach, on her entire body. Tina realizes that Brittany probably doesn't want to say anything at the moment and sees her job done.

"We'll be over there, if you need us okay?" she reminds her, pausing briefly at Brittany's side before sighing and standing up to make her way back to Quinn at the other end.

Tina makes it a few steps down when Brittany clears her throat and tries to speak, her voice barely coming out at all, "Is she…awake?"

She watches Tina turn around and join her fingers in front of her, shaking her head gently, "No. No, not yet."

Brittany nods understandingly, calmly, but she realizes momentarily that she can't hold her composure anymore. Soon enough, a lump shoots up her throat and her heart feels as if it dropped straight down to the pit of her stomach. She shuts her eyes and slowly moves her head from side to side, fighting the sting behind her eyes. Brittany tries so hard, harder than she thinks she has ever tried before, but then it hits her. Why is she trying to fight tears? Santana is in the hospital, unconscious, and she's sitting out here forcing herself to stay in one piece. Most of the time, we can control our feelings; choose what to show and what not to show. But there a few exceptions every once in a while, when we find that it is entirely _out _of our control. Moments when the only thing we can do is feel what we feel and there's no stopping it. There's no changing or hiding or overcoming, but only feeling. And this, Brittany soon realizes, is definitely one of those moments.

A sob breaks from her lips and she bends over, burying her face into her hands. Tina jolts from her position and sits down next to Brittany on the bench, arms enveloping around her.

"Oh Britt," she hushes softly, pressing her cheek against Brittany's shoulder, "I'm so sorry."

Brittany shakes her head and breaks away from her hands, turning into Tina in tears as she reciprocates the hug. She keeps her eyes shut tightly, because she has a fear. It doesn't quite make sense but all she knows is that opening her eyes will make her feel closer to the harsh reality of their situation. Opening her eyes will remind her she's in a hospital. Opening her eyes will remind her that Santana is in one of these rooms on some random floor of this building. Opening her eyes will remind of her of the past two hours spent not knowing how to exist properly anymore. Brittany doesn't want to face all of that yet, especially not all at once.

Tina's hand reaches up to stroke Brittany's hair, "She's going to be okay, Britt. I know you're scared, but she'll be alright."

Brittany emerges from her shoulder and lets out a sob before attempting to say something, "Sh-he h-as to be oka-hay." Her words are interrupted by quick gasps of air and cracked tears.

"Hey, hey," Tina objects, separating herself from Brittany and reaching up to hold her face gently and wipe her tears, "Look at me."

Brittany shifts in her seat, coughing out a few more sobs before finally peering up at Tina. Just the sight of Tina reminds her of Santana and what has happened and what is still disturbingly true about their current situation. It forces that lump even higher, clogging her throat until there is barely enough space for air to pass in and out. She almost breaks again, her features twitching on the verge of tears, but Tina attempts to catch her before she falls.

"Santana is a strong girl," Tina states firmly, "We all know how strong she is. She's going to fight, Brittany. Whatever this is, she's going to fight it and we're going to fight it with her, okay?"

She knows Tina is right. She knows that Santana is unbelievably strong but she also knows that Santana can be weak. Brittany has seen every color of Santana, ever shadow, every light. To her, Santana is the most powerful figure but she is also the most fragile. Brittany wants to believe everything Tina just said, she even tries to, but she can't make the rotten twist in her stomach disappear. She can't make the poisonous thoughts stop flowing into her head. It would all be better, _easier, _if she knew Santana was awake, if she could see Santana awake. She just wants to see it for herself. To stop hearing all the second hand reports about how she's stable and how she's okay, but to see it for herself. It would all be a little easier if Brittany could see the rise and fall of Santana's chest, or the steady beep from a monitor, or even the quiet fluttering of eyelids.

Brittany sniffs and wipes her cheeks, blowing out a quivery breath in attempt to weaken the intense emotion in her body. Tina gently strokes along Brittany's arm and they sit together in almost silence, the only noise being uneven breaths.

"Guys," someone interrupts politely. Tina turns first, spinning around to find Quinn standing a few feet away with anxiously fiddling fingers. Brittany keeps her eyes hidden, head lowered and hair falling over her face.

"They said we could go see her," Quinn explains, and watches the way Brittany's head snaps up faster than the speed of light.

"S-She's awake?" Brittany chokes out, sniffling and straightening out her hair.

Quinn shakes her head, "No, not yet, but we're allowed to go in if we want."

Tina turns back to Brittany and lifts her brow, silently asking whether that's what she wants. Brittany swallows roughly knowing that she would much rather see Santana when she's awake, but this is better than nothing. It's better than waiting out here, in a hallway where there's nothing to do but sit and think, and not only think but relive too. She can't be here anymore. She needs to be wherever Santana is.

"Let's go," Brittany confirms and stands up without question, gathering her bag and her jacket before following Quinn down the hallway.

"They said fifth floor, room 23E," Quinn says, repeating what the nurse had come over and explained earlier.

The rest of the walk to the nearest elevator is silent, not a word spoken. They're all thinking about something, thoughts of their own, but sometimes they forget that it's all about the same thing in the end. It happens a lot; oblivion in times of struggle. When we're going through something horrible, we tend to forget that there are people out there going through the exact same thing. We shouldn't have to feel guilty about forgetting, but it's definitely something to remember. Quinn and Tina are fairly good at staying aware of Brittany and how she's feeling about the situation. Brittany, on the other hand, has been a little less open minded and not by choice. She _can't _think about anything other than Santana. She _can't _think about anything other than how she feels. She knows Quinn and Tina are affected too but she can't give them her attention, especially not when she could lose something so much more important.

The elevator dings open and they step out onto the fifth floor, which is organized identically to every other floor. Quinn reads the directory on the wall that lists the range of room numbers in each direction. She finds an arrow pointing in the right direction that says '15E – 25E' and leads the rest of them down that hallway, passing by the floor's lobby and reception desk. Again, Quinn spots the room first and slows down, peering into through the open door. She finds it strange that it's open but when she glances quickly at the others down the hallway, she notices that they are all wide open. It must be standard protocol. She shrugs it off in her head and steps in, Tina following closely behind her.

Brittany stays. Her feet stop moving and she hasn't looked up from the ground yet. She knows the other two have gone in but she can't and she isn't sure why. Moments ago, all she wanted to was to see Santana and now that she has that chance, she wants nothing more than to run away. If she sprints now, she might disappear before Quinn and Tina could notice. Brittany thinks about the idea, considers it, but the scratches it out and crumples the thought up like a piece of scrapped paper. She tosses it away and takes a deep breath, fists clenching tightly together. Her heart picks up the pace, speeding a little too quickly for her own liking.

"Britt?" Quinn calls softly, coming back out, "Are you okay?"

She glances up to meet Quinn's eyes, but catches onto the fact that if Quinn weren't in the way, she'd be able to see Santana. Brittany is a little thankful that something is postponing that opportunity, giving her a few more breaths to prepare for possibly the worst thing she has had to witness.

"Come on," Quinn offers, extending out her hand for Brittany to take. It surprises her at first but despite any disagreements they have, Brittany knows Quinn always means well in the end. She knows that Quinn is reminding her that they're all in this together whether they like it or not. It'll be easier if they all supported each other, lent a helping hand when one is down.

Brittany reaches out and takes Quinn's hand, tightening the grip as she blows out another trembling breath. Quinn presses her lips together in an appropriate smile and turns back around, leading them both into the room. Brittany closes her eyes temporarily and let's Quinn take her in. Her heart begins to throb violently in more places of her body; blood pumping straight to her ears and her head. A pulse pounds at the bottom of her throat and she tries to swallow to make it disappear but nothing changes. Her eyes blink open after a few steps in, body shaking in dreaded anticipation. When she lifts her head, the rip in her stomach follows right on cue. Something sharp pierces through her muscles until it finds the heart and slays through it. Brittany absorbs the sterile nature of the room, the pale skin of the body on the bed, the multiple wires that flow in and out it, the beeps from that heart monitor. The visual information clogs her brain, attacking every open space with an image from the room.

Quinn feels Brittany squeeze her hand so tightly that it numbs her own. The grip is so strong that Quinn doesn't believe Brittany even knows how scared she is, how tightly she's hanging on. Quinn reaches over and places her other hand on top of Brittany's, rubbing it gently in hopes to get her to loosen the hold, maybe pull her back into reality. She seems entrenched in the sight of Santana, but Quinn doesn't want to take Brittany away. She knows Brittany can't stand being away from Santana, she's witnessed it before. They don't do well separated.

Tina moves first, approaching the bed and taking a careful seat on the side. She straightens out the blanket on top of Santana, tucking her in. Brittany watches the way Tina interacts with Santana and feels her throat swell, the muscles inside thickening and hardening the way liquid dries into cement. She tries to swallow subtly but it's difficult since the lump scrapes down and tears the flesh. She winces and squeezes Quinn's hand tighter, only then realizing how hard she had been holding on already.

"Britt," Quinn whispers, moving closer to Brittany's side, "Hey, come on…you're okay."

Brittany notices the stinging behind her eyes and doesn't deny that it is the result of tears welling. Of course she's going to cry. She can't look at Santana lying there pale and unconscious and not want to collapse to the floor. The only thing that's keeping her strong is Quinn, whose free hand is now wrapped around her body. Quinn helps Brittany move from her position, nudging her to walk closer to the bed, to the side opposite of Tina. Brittany stumbles a few times because her eyes are glued to the body in the bed, stuck in an overwhelming gaze that she can't escape from.

"Sit down," Quinn advises, leading Brittany to the chair beside the bed.

"No…no," Brittany whispers in objection, shaking her head.

"Okay, alright," Quinn quickly responds, not wanting to upset Brittany any more than she already is. Quinn continues to guide her towards the side of the bed, keeping their hands locked tightly. Quinn still doesn't know how to be the supportive friend but she figures that whatever she's doing now is good enough, and if Brittany doesn't want her to let go, then she won't let go. Plus, she needs Brittany too. Seeing Santana like this is far from easy for Quinn.

Brittany finally approaches the bed, but by now her eyes have already filled with tears. Her vision is blurred but if she blinks they'll drop and she doesn't want to see a stain of her own sadness on the sheet. She doesn't want to cry, not yet, because things may be 'stable', but they aren't good and they won't get better for a while. She wants to push herself to stay strong, to be able to cope with this without breaking down. It's a tall order, especially for Brittany; someone who has loved Santana every day of her life since they met.

"She looks so…" Tina begins, choosing her words wisely, "…she looks so different like this."

"Tina…" Quinn warns.

"C-can…" Brittany chokes out and the two turn to face her immediately, "C-can I have a m-moment alone?"

Tina and Quinn share a look of concern, both worried and sympathetic towards Brittany. Santana is their best friend too but to Brittany, Santana is everything. That's her life she's looking at; right there lying on the hospital bed with wires attached to her veins and tubes in her body. That's her life hooked up to the beeping monitor. They know that if anyone gets to be alone with Santana right now, it should be her. They also know that Santana would have wanted Brittany to be the one to stay.

"Of course," Quinn says quietly, rubbing Brittany's arm gently before finally letting go. Tina leans in to place a kiss on Santana's forehead before standing up and walking to Quinn who waits by the door. They spend a few seconds lingering there, watching Brittany hover above Santana's body, before finally sighing and stepping outside.

Brittany lets out a breath she had been holding for some time now, waiting until they were alone so she didn't feel like every move she made was being observed and analyzed. Her gaze starts at Santana's hairline and makes its way down to her eyes, closed peacefully; to her lips; dry and chapped; to her chest, rising and falling; to her hands, lifeless. Brittany presses her lips together tightly to block a sob from breaking out. She knows that they are all ready to escape, filling up at the bottom of her throat and waiting for the right moment. She impulsively reaches out and lets her hand hover above Santana's but before she can place it on top, she notices how it trembles. No, how it shakes. She can't move it any further than it is now, it's frozen. She can't touch Santana, not like this. The quivering is enough to send the tears falling, burning down her cheek like acid. A sob cracks from her lips and her upper body bends over, succumbing to the power of her tears. She cries. Brittany cries because that's the only thing she knows how to do right now.

She lets her head hang for the time being, her body shaking to the rhythm of her sobs. Breathing becomes difficult and uneven; sucking in breaths when she can but otherwise forgetting to breathe. She sniffs and coughs quietly, watching several tears splatter onto the white sheet next to Santana's arm. She reaches to the area and tries to wipe them dry but realizes that they are stains now and she can't get rid of them on her own. Brittany pulls together enough strength to lift up and return to Santana's face. She knows how swollen her eyes have become because she has to try harder to keep them wide enough now. Brittany decides to sit herself down on the edge of the bed, a wise decision considering her knees would have buckled if she stood any longer. Without too much thought, she scoops Santana's hand in hers, feeling it completely limp. When Santana doesn't squeeze back, Brittany is forced to remind herself that Santana probably can't feel anything right now. That's what being unconscious means right? That you have no awareness of the real world, that your mind is switched off so any signals sent from your body are never processed. She doesn't like the sound of that one bit.

Brittany brings Santana's hand to her lips, kissing the back of it before holding it against her chest. Tears continue to fall but she isn't sobbing anymore. She shifts higher up the bed and admires Santana more closely. All the life may be drained out of her but she's still the most beautiful girl Brittany has ever seen. She always will be, because Brittany doesn't associate beauty with appearance. Yes, being aesthetically gifted helps but apart from her looks, Brittany has always found beauty in Santana's heart. So as long as Santana has one, she will always be beautiful to Brittany and that's what she loves about them. The thought even makes her smile a little bit, as much as she can in this situation. She reaches out and strokes Santana's hair, tucking it more firmly behind her ear.

"Hi…" she says in a broken whisper, clutching their hands closer to her chest. She sniffs and exhales heavily, "It's me…B."

She shifts her hand to the blanket and brings it further up Santana's body carefully, fixing the wrinkles, "I…uh…I don't know if you can hear me b-but…I…I'm here. I'm right here."

She coughs out a weak smile, trying to force some of the grave tension out of the situation. Brittany allows another moment of silence to intervene because she thought it would help but instead, it just gave her time to think. And she doesn't like what she thinks right now. She frowns suddenly and tears her eyes away from Santana to the bed, "I don't…understand, San. I don't…know what's going on anymore."

She sniffs again, feeling the lump in her throat crawl the slightest inch higher, "And…drugs? I…I don't. I'm c-confused and…scared."

Her fingertip begins to trace an unplanned pattern on the back of Santana's hand. She pours her focus into that gesture for the time being, finding that it keeps her mind from thinking too fast and too overwhelmingly. The last thing she wants right now is to panic, because that will not do her nor Santana any good. Brittany will admit that she's scared though. She's never been more terrified.

"None if it makes…s-sense," she continues quietly, stuttering every once in a while, "I knew something was…wr-wrong b-but…not…I h-had no idea…it was this b-bad."

Brittany glances back up at Santana, and then over to the monitor consciously. She doesn't like the fact that she can see Santana's heartbeat projected on the screen like that. It feels wrong and distant and superficial. She much prefers feeling the warm heart pounding against the skin on Santana's chest, or watching Santana breathe nervously in front of her and knowing that it is because the beats have sped up inside her. Brittany likes to identify Santana's heartbeat naturally, not electronically and the sight of it makes her nauseous. She tears her eyes away quickly, refreshing her vision with Santana's face again.

"I'm sorry," she says, feeling all the emotions from years ago come together on this night, in this moment. They have barely talked about anything since they saw each other again and Brittany never got the chance to apologize yet. She doesn't want to say it now because Santana can't hear her but she doesn't want to wait any longer either. She already did that and now she's sitting beside Santana on a hospital bed. The scary thing about life is we don't know when the last is our last.

"I'm sorry I let you go in high school. I shouldn't have, Santana. I was…stupid," she says, wincing when she makes herself say the word, "I was stupid and I messed up but…god, San…can you h-hear me, at all?"

She searches Santana again, even though it was made clear she wouldn't be waking up soon. Brittany just wants to hear her voice again, or her laugh, maybe see her smile. She just wants to squeeze Santana's hand and seconds later, feel it squeeze back. When neither of those things happens, Brittany loses a sliver of hope. She's naturally a very optimistic person but one can only be so positive about a situation like this. Soon enough, if nothing changes, it is going to be a lot harder to hang onto any kind of hope at all.

Brittany sucks in a jumpy breath before leaning in closer and tightening their hands, "San…just…wake up. Please, wake up. You gotta come back to me, okay?"

She feels the tears start to fall again, staining her cheeks, "I'm not…I'm not doing this without you. I lov—"

The beeping turns rapid and Brittany snaps up to examine the monitor noises that interrupted her. Those quick, fluctuating lines don't make sense but all she knows is that it wasn't doing that before. The sounds grow faster and louder and urgent and she stands up from the bed, body trembling in panic. A nurse rushes in, and another one and another one. Two of them crowd around the bed while the other finds Brittany and pulls her away.

"What's happening!?" she cries, wrestling the man who grabs hold of her.

"Ma'am, you can't be in here, you need to step outside, please," he orders her and she glances back over her shoulder at Santana, tears rapidly blurring her vision and breathing speeding far past controllable.

A doctor enters shortly and pulls the chart from the end of the bed, "Talk to me."

"She's in v-fib, we need to get her heart stabilized," a nurse informs him.

"Alright, get me a charge," the doctor requests before pulling Santana's eyes open and shining a flashlight into each of them.

"Wait, Santana!" Brittany screams, fighting the nurse as he tries to get her outside.

She wrestles him, thrashing about, trying to get out of his grip but he's stronger than her and she doesn't have much energy to begin with. Just as they make it outside, Brittany hears the beeping stop and replace with a long single, flat note. She immediately stops fighting. Her eyes widen and she freezes, staring blankly into the window of the room where the doctors are crowded around Santana's body. Her heart stops, literally stops. She can't feel it beat anymore. She can't feel anything. Her entire body explodes into numbness. The nurse is trying to talk her through it but she can't even hear him, let alone try to understand. All that plays in her head is a faint high frequency hum.

...

"Dammit, she's crashing!" the doctor shouts, shoving the flashlight pen back into his pocket, "We need to charge!"

A nurse rushes and sets up the defibrillator while the doctor and the other nurses prepare Santana for the emergency procedure. They remove the pillow and flatten out the bed, lifting Santana up to place a platform underneath her.

"Come on, come on, we're losing her, give me the damn charge!"

The nurse hands it over and the doctor rubs the clamps together before placing them in the designated positions on Santana's chest, "Alright, charge to 200, clear!"

Santana's chest jolts up from the shock and the monitor reports a heartbeat for a few seconds before dropping back down to flat line. The doctor curses and attempts another shock.

"Again!" he orders, "Charge to 250! Clear!"

Her chest rises again and this time the monitor picks up her heart rate steadily. The doctor removes the defibrillators from her body and locates the carotid artery on her neck for a pulse. When he feels it, he lets out a breath and drops his head, "She's back…we're good."

...

"Britt, what happened?!" Tina says rushing over after leaving to get coffee. Quinn follows closely behind her, confused with the sudden panic fit.

Brittany doesn't respond or speak. She doesn't even move. Her eyes are wide and filled with tears but she's not crying. The nurse has a grip on her arm but she's not fighting anymore either.

"What happened!?" Quinn asks the nurse harshly, glancing back and forth between the room and Brittany and the man.

"Ma'am, I can assure you, the doctors have it under control, she's regained a heartbeat, she's stabilizing," the nurse reports.

"Regained a heartbeat?" Quinn repeats, "What are you talking about? What happened to her?"

"She went into cardiac arrest, ma'am," the nurse explains, "Her heart failed and they performed a 200 charge which didn't work so they did a 250, which brought her back immediately."

Quinn and Tina both process the news, fighting the urge to sprint into the hospital room and check on Santana. Tina tries to but the nurse lets go of Brittany and jumps in front of the door, blocking the pathway. Brittany wobbles slowly, balance weakening without a steady support. She can't feel her muscles or her body. Her mind has practically derailed into a vacuum of emptiness. Quinn is the only one who remembers to turn back towards Brittany.

"Britt?" Quinn says slowly, redirecting her attention to the frozen body in the middle of the hallway. Tina turns at the name and shares a worried look with Quinn.

It doesn't take long for them to understand what is happening to Brittany. She's in shock and she can't react to anything right now. She's completely conscious and awake but she's paralyzed by what they can only assume is fear. Quinn sighs and positions herself at Brittany's side, Tina doing the same on the other side. Quinn loops her arm into Brittany's and establishes a strong hold on her, offering a light squeeze to see if it is enough to bring her back into reality, but it doesn't make any difference. Brittany's eyes are glued to the window of the room, staring at the doctors inside. The nurse eventually catches on to where she's looking and turns into the room to close the blinds. Brittany's eyes stay exactly where they were, not even a blink.

Quinn and Tina step backwards slowly, bringing Brittany with them to nearest bench a few feet away. She moves but not on her own, only because the two girls are guiding her.

"Come on, you're okay just breathe, Brittany," Quinn says softly.

Quinn's voice makes it into her head and her lips part naturally. A breath escapes and her head falls as she finally blinks, eyes stinging so painfully that she keeps them shut as the pressure pushes the tears off her eyelashes and onto her cheeks. They manage to sit her down carefully, but soon afterwards, they hear Brittany start to cry. She falls into Quinn who immediately embraces her and rests her chin onto Brittany's shoulder. Tina sits down beside them and grips Brittany's hand, squeezing it tightly. They listen to the quiet, heartbreaking sobs that break from Brittany's lips and it's enough to trigger tears of their own. They share another look, Quinn and Tina, who now establish a mutual understanding that they may have underestimated the gravity of this situation. Santana is barely hanging on and not just emotionally or mentally or figuratively, but physically and literally too. She is _barely _hanging on.

* * *

Most people tend to remember the significance of time in a dangerous, urgent situation. They realize that the only way that 'time' exists is in the reality that there is not enough of it. There is never _enough _time in these moments of life or death. How can there be? When the possibility of an end stares us right in the eye, what is there to think about besides time? What is there to remind ourselves of other than the fact that we suddenly might not have those extra hours we talked about earlier, or that idea of tomorrow that sounded so great this morning? They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die but do you ever wonder if that also happens when someone you love is the person dying? And instead of _your _life flashing before your eyes, it's your life with that person? Whatever the answer is, it all comes to the same conclusion. There should have been more time. We should have spent more time doing this with that person, or doing this with another person. We should have spent more time saying these words or loving these moments. We should have spent more time living to the last hour of the day. We should have spent more time living like time was running out. All those sentences have something in common; the idea of more time. Unfortunately, it is one of those things that we'll always long for, but never truly obtain.

"I can't believe any of this," Quinn says under her breath towards Tina. They're standing just inside the room, leaning against the wall next to the door.

Tina agrees, folding her arms across her chest, "Me neither."

They glance at each other cautiously before returning to the direction they had been focused on before. Santana's heart monitor beeps normally, for now. They make sure to keep an ear out, listening consciously for a steady beat to keep following one after the other. The doctor explained that she was stable again but mentioned that she could easily slip back into another arrest. It's been an hour and a half since Santana crashed and they're practically walking on eggshells.

Quinn and Tina are standing by the door of her room, eyes shifting between their best friend lying soundly on the bed and their other best friend seated in the chair beside her. Brittany's hands are covering her nose and mouth, fingers poking into the inner corners of her eyes as she observes Santana's chest rise and fall. She can't afford to look away, not when any moment those movements could stop and she could lose the most important thing in her life. She doesn't want to go that far, to think about the worse possible outcome of this situation. A life without Santana really doesn't seem worth much, but then she stops. She stops thinking about that because the more she thinks about it the more she feels the need to wake Santana up and tell her she loves her, maybe even yell at her a little for being so reckless, but then tell her she loves her again, and again after that.

Brittany's thoughts begin to cloud her mind, making it difficult to concentrate on one thing and stay calm. She closes her eyes slowly and shakes her head, sniffing away the dried tears still clogged in her nose. She doesn't pay any attention to Quinn or Tina. She knows they're talking but she can't really hear them, partly because they speak so softly but also because she purposely tries to block them out. It's nothing personal. Brittany just can't afford to do anything but watch Santana's heart monitor. Every time her eyes start to blur and lose focus, she shakes her head and makes herself see clearly again. She's tired, exhausted, but falling asleep would be dangerous. Too much can happen in an hour, thirty minutes, ten minutes, thirty seconds. Even a nap would be too dangerous. Falling asleep could mean waking up to the end of the world.

"How did…" Quinn starts again, shaking her head as she folds her arms over her chest, "How did she let it get this bad?"

"I don't know," Tina responds sadly, facing Santana direction again, "She was so good at…hiding it. I would never have guessed drugs."

"Because Santana wouldn't do this," Quinn says in a harsh whisper, "Not the girl we know. She wouldn't…no, Santana's not stupid enough to do this on purpose."

"Quinn…" Tina says, snapping to her with a warning glare before peering towards Brittany.

"She wouldn't, Tina," Quinn replies, backing up her statement, "I know it, you know it. Brittany sure as hell knows it."

Tina sighs, eyes studying Brittany as she sits nervously in the chair. She notices the way Brittany keeps glancing at the heart monitor and then back at Santana and then back at the monitor. It's heartbreaking to watch her, because even though Santana is her best friend and losing her would be just about the worst thing that could ever happen, Tina can only imagine whether everything she feels is tripled in Brittany's perspective. The worry, the fear, the anxiety. She can barely handle it as it is let alone think about it getting worse.

"Brittany," Tina sighs sympathetically, "We didn't even realize what we were bringing her into."

"Some surprise," Quinn says darkly, "No, but she needs to be here."

"Yeah, Santana would have wanted that," Tina reminds Quinn, even though she is already aware.

"Stop," Quinn snaps, kicking the heel of her foot against the floor, "Don't talk about her like she's—"

"I'm sorry," Tina responds immediately, cutting Quinn off before she can say the word, "I wasn't. I just meant that if she were conscious, she would have wanted Brittany beside her."

Quinn slowly glances back at Santana, "She's not going anywhere."

"Excuse me," a man says politely, and both Quinn and Tina turn around to find Dr. Sanders just outside the door, "May I speak with you, Ms. Fabray?"

Brittany glances up when she hears the man's voice and watches Quinn exchange a look with Tina, then with her, then at Santana, before finally following him out. She wants to know what he's saying but she is not leaving Santana's side. She'll choose Santana over anyone any day.

"What is it?" Quinn probes, watching Dr. Sanders turn around and inhale deeply once they've left the room.

"We may be dealing with something a little more complex than I had initially thought," he explains vaguely.

"What do you mean complex? What does that—" Quinn spits out confusedly before sighing, "What are you talking about?"

"Our best guess at the moment, based on the tests we have done, is that your friend has been taking drugs long and frequently enough to damage the heart system. She has severely weakened it and made it prone to failure under stressful conditions," he continues straightforwardly, "We have to repair the tissue damage."

Quinn feels her chest swell and her eyes sting from the news. She doesn't have anything to say, no words, no voice.

"She has to consent, and we're hoping we'll get her on board with treatment when she wakes up," the doctor explains, "The surgery is necessary…assuming she wants to get better."

"So she has to get this surgery or…" Quinn pushes out, trying to get as much as she can from him.

"Or she's looking at a lifetime of hospital check-ups and medication and rehabilitation," he confirms, "And eventually…she'll need a heart transplant if she continues to damage the one she has already."

Quinn sucks in a breath when he mentions the last solution if Santana were to refuse the treatment. She is not letting that happen, she has already decided on it. Quinn may be weakened by the intensity of this situation but there is no way she has lost sight of what is the most important thing; Santana's life. If the surgery will fix the physical dilemmas that Santana faces, then she is going to get the surgery. Quinn doesn't believe Santana is foolish enough to refuse the treatment but just in case, she's prepared to make her. She was lenient about the confessions and the secrets but this doesn't wait. Santana's life doesn't wait.

"Now um, if you don't mind," he begins again after some time, "I'd like to ask you a few questions to see if we can maybe gain a better understanding of her…situation."

"Uh, sure yeah, I'll do my best," Quinn chokes out with, still processing what Dr. Sanders had just explained. Several key words stick to her mind in giant red warning beams: damage, heart system, severely weakened, failure. She tries to keep them neutral right now, rather than continue watching them flash across her memory like violent attacks.

"Are you aware of how long she has been doing drugs?" he asks, folding his arms over his chest.

Quinn sighs disappointedly, "No…no I can't say that I am."

"Can you recall anything strange about her behavior that might be helpful for us to know and take into account?" he asks again.

She mulls it over, contemplating the answer in her head. Quinn realizes that it makes more sense as to why Santana was being so different and strange. She sees how drugs could explain the past few months but then it hits her. This might be the opportunity to discover what really happened to Santana. None of them believe she did this intentionally—started using, that is. She kept it up but whatever got her going in the first place; it couldn't have been Santana's full and thought out decision. She has to tell the doctors everything she knows.

"She was never like this, my friend, she was never like this before," Quinn explains, "I've known her since I was thirteen…but, I don't know, six months ago she started acting differently."

"What happened?" he probes.

"I don't know. All I know is that this has been going on for six months. I can't say when she started the drugs but if I had to give you something, it'd be sometime between now and…last April," Quinn offers.

"Alright, and do you know of any reason or motive behind this?"

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and chews on the skin. Quinn shifts her weight to one side before dropping her head and shaking it sadly, "No…no I don't."

"Did you know about the drugs?" he asks.

"No," Quinn says honestly, "None of us are part of that 'business'. Neither was she until…well, whenever."

Dr. Sanders clears his throat and nods, reaching out to place a hand on the side of Quinn's arm, "We will do the best we can to help her get better, ma'am. You and your friends may want to consider looking for rehabilitation clinics, therapists, programs, etcetera. Ms. Lopez is going to need a lot of treatment and the best thing to be in this situation is prepared."

Quinn spaces temporarily, feeling the information build up inside her head and craft a traffic jam. Her thoughts crowd and eventually become stagnant, overpopulating her mind to the point of losing concentration. She shakes her head quickly, attempting to clear it out for now.

"Right," she nods, eyes avoiding the direct contact with the doctor, "We'll…we'll do that."

Dr. Sanders offers a pressed smile, "Thank you for your time and patience."

She reciprocates a thin smile and watches him brush past. Quinn reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, attempting to rid of the headache she feels coming on from both stress and lack of sleep. There are probably other factors involved in starting the pain that throbs at her temples but all she knows for now is that it's been good five hours since things were normal and she misses it. She doesn't like hospitals. Not even a little bit. This was definitely not how she expected her night to turn out, and it's even more surprising because it all happened so fast. Santana had barely arrived home when it began to fall apart. Quinn tries to remember the sequence of events but it all comes out blurry—one giant web of conflict that would take days to untangle.

When she decides to return to the room, she walks in and takes a seat in the couch adjacent to the chair that Brittany is on and across from Santana's bed. She glances at her wrist but remembers that she isn't wearing a watch, looking elsewhere for an idea of the time. Eventually, her eyes run over a clock on the wall above Tina's head that reads 6:23am. Tina eyes her suspiciously before making her way over to the same couch, plopping herself down on the opposite side. Brittany peels away from Santana to Quinn, sniffing quietly and peering through thick, red, swollen eyes.

"What'd he say?" she asks, her voice so hoarse and raspy.

Quinn sighs, "Get some sleep, Britt."

"What did he say?" Brittany forces, not caring for the sympathy treatment she's receiving.

Tina glances nervously between the members inside the room, even the unconscious one on the bed. She finally stays on Brittany and feels something unnerving rattle inside her stomach, because Tina has never seen her so…broken before. Quinn knows she has to tell Brittany the truth, even if it's going to hurt her.

"Santana's heart is failing," Quinn explains slowly, "…they…they have to go in and repair it."

"Go in?" Tina questions, "As in…open her up?"

"The drugs have done…some damage, I don't know. He didn't really explain the details," Quinn reassures, shrugging.

"And if she doesn't get the surgery?" Brittany asks nervously, hands still trembling from before.

Quinn stares sharply at her briefly before turning to share a look with Tina. She looks back and forth between them before ending up at Santana, swallowing roughly, "She's getting the surgery."

"Doesn't Santana have to make that decision?" Tina asks cautiously.

Quinn snaps to glare at her, "Not when she'll die if she doesn't."

"What?" Brittany says immediately.

"No, Britt," Quinn quickly responds to reinforce her point, "She's not going to die. She's getting that surgery."

Her eyes burn into Brittany's and that's when Brittany knows Quinn is just as dedicated to Santana as she is. Nobody says anything anymore because whenever they're reminded of the worst possible outcome, the gravity of their situation tugs heavily. It's normal for them to feel shocked and scared and terrified because it hasn't been that long since it fell apart. In pieces, sure, the hours have dragged out to be so excruciatingly long that it becomes unbearable sometimes, but altogether, it's only been several hours. Maybe that just isn't enough to process everything clearly yet. They still have so many questions, but all ones that can only be answered by Santana herself. Since she is currently incapable of responding, they have nothing to do but wait. And while patience is difficult to maintain right now, they'll keep waiting until there's nothing left to wait for.

* * *

She has memorized the rhythm now, the impeccable symmetry of time between each beep. It inks to her memory, like a bar of music notes written in permanent marker. She doesn't like the fact that this is the only sound she hears but she'd rather hear this than hear nothing. At least this tells her the most important thing in her life is still there, still breathing. Silence is ambiguous; it wouldn't tell her a damn thing except what she already knows, what is already in her thoughts. The beeps keep her awake too, which is something she needs to be right now. Not that she even thinks she can fall asleep. She's already too afraid to close her eyes for longer than five seconds let alone surrender to a few hours of shut eye. That isn't the case for the other two apparently.

Brittany takes a moment to glance back at Quinn and Tina who lie on either ends of the couch sleeping. In some part, she's jealous because she wishes she could fall asleep too. It'd be a little easier and it'd pass some time but then again, time is another ambiguity. We never really know all about it; how much we have, how much is left, how much there is to go. After what happened the last time she was in this room, Brittany won't take any risks. She won't even talk to Santana because she fears that she'll be cut off again by the monitor. Every second, she prepares herself for the next second thinking Santana is going to crash. Her hands tremble, the hairs on the back of her neck and her arms stand up, her chest expands as her heart swells, her stomach churns uncomfortably, and then all of that repeats again in the new second.

The side of her cheek grows warm and she turns towards the window to find that the sun is shining through it. Brittany can't even remember when she had last checked the time, but she remembers it still being dark out when she did. She's been so closed off, in her own little universe, that she paid no attention to it. She finds the clock on the wall and notes down 8:11am in her mind. It's been nearly 10 hours since she went running after Santana down the streets of New York City. That makes it a good 24 or some hours since she has had sleep and the exhaustion is starting to kick in. On top of that, she's dragging with her every fear and worry in the world on her shoulders.

Brittany decides to stand up and stretch, still staying conscious of the monitor. Her arms extend upwards and she flexes her thighs, knees, calves. It doesn't relieve the tension but she feels the a little less stiff than she had been. She squints out the window where the light shines through, a hand coming up to shade her view. The city looks a lot scarier than it used to. Something about the buildings and the busy streets don't feel so comforting anymore, but Brittany wonders whether that's because comfort with anything no longer exists inside her. When the place you normally find comfort no longer offers it to you, it makes everything else seem…worse than it really is. Santana is that place for Brittany but there is no more comfort left. And when Brittany can't find comfort in Santana, there's no guarantee she'll find know how to find it elsewhere.

The thoughts get a little too heavy and she's not ready to face them head on. She eventually reaches out and shuts the blinds, returning the room to a cool darkness. Before turning around right away, she chooses to linger there momentarily. Her head hangs as she blows out a steady breathe of air. Brittany still feels a little dizzy to be standing on her own but she pushes through it. She presses her palms against the wall and pushes into it, face scrunching tightly. It feels good; to apply force to something. Brittany hates feeling so out of control of her body and that is all the past few hours have been; uncontrollable. Everything she does has a consequence and she can't help but feel like a move that is too quick or a breath that is too strong will trigger something and Santana will crash again. Everything feels so fragile that her body has become caged by fear, caged in the prison of her greatest nightmare.

She finally pushes off the wall and makes her way back to her previous position. Before sitting down, she shifts the chair closer to the bed so that it is practically attached to it. She hops onto the cushion and settles down. Brittany listens to those beeps again as they arrive in the perfect rhythm she made herself memorize. She reaches but freezes just above Santana's hand, fingers trembling in hesitation.

"Why can't I touch you?" she whispers softly, tears building up in her eyes.

"Why does it feel so…" Brittany continues, the lump swimming up her throat competitively, "…dangerous?"

Through blurry eyes, Brittany glances back up at Santana and shakes her head slowly. A part of her fills with warmth because she pours all her memories with Santana into this gaze. She sees the beauty of their relationship, all the struggles included. She rediscovers the feelings she knew she always had. She finds Santana again and it lasts for a while, enough for the corners of her lips to curve up gently.

"Do you remember in 5th grade, San?" she murmurs quietly, "When we were at the playground and I fell off the swing?"

The memory flashes across her vision like an old film tattering against a blank screen. She smiles a little more when the next words come to her.

"I cried, and cried and you rushed over to me and you wrapped your arms around me and you told me the swing was cursed," she continues, chuckling at the last part, "You kissed my knee and you hugged me and you fixed my hair. And then you said that I would be okay because you were going to protect me. That you were going to be strong for me."

The images replay for a few more seconds until they break and crack and fall away, until the light fades at the end of the connection. Brittany's smile falters and her eyes lose passion because this memory needs two halves to survive and right now there is only one. Brittany keeps trying to send these memories to Santana, revive them for her but they keep getting lost somewhere along the way and it is most likely because Santana can no longer receive them. She can't see them, or listen to them, or feel them, or absorb them in any way.

"It's…" Brittany struggles, frowning fearfully, "It's my turn to be s-strong for you but Santana…you gotta give me something to work with. You have to talk to me."

The memories disappear in her eyes and she's left alone, alone in front of a girl who _looks_ like the love of her life. The body in this bed isn't Santana, not unless she opens her eyes. Santana Lopez is the love of her life but she's not in this room and Brittany knows that. She knows because Santana has warmth but all she feels is the cold. She knows because Santana is the light but all she sees is the darkness. She knows because with Santana the world spins in perfect harmony but right now, it spins too fast or too slow. Her eyes sting at the thought of her life with Santana disappearing. Tears form so easily, one would think she practiced crying at night in front of a mirror over and over again. Maybe she should have, that way at least she'd be used to the feeling and then crying wouldn't feel so horrible.

Every time she blinks a tear falls and she wipes it away. Brittany slowly lowers her head to rest on top of Santana's forearm. She keeps her eyes open but her vision has blurred to the extent where objects are merely colorful blobs. She stares into space and follows whatever path of thought comes to her naturally.

"I love you, Santana," she whispers, and feels something drop from the corner of her eye onto Santana's hand.

She sniffs and presses her lips together tightly. It's the first time she has said it out loud to Santana. Brittany used to admire the way the phrase left her lips. She would cherish the taste of each syllable the way we cherish the last bite of a delicious meal. She used to want to say it a thousand times every day. Those three words used to be her favorite, but things have changed a little now. Those three words have grown edges, sharp ones, jagged and bladelike. They're harder to carry because it keeps cutting skin. They're harder to offer sweetly because they become poisonous. Brittany knows that she loves Santana, but these entire ten hours have made her question whether she loves loving Santana. She isn't going to lie and say that this is everything she's ever wanted. How can she admit to loving the act of loving Santana when loving her means suffocating under the grip of patience and worry and fear and confusion all the time? It's so exhausting and in all honestly, Brittany has thought about running away. While she feels horrible about it, that's not the important thing. What's important is the fact that she hasn't run. Brittany hasn't run and there's a reason for it. She knows that Santana loves her too and that's what has kept her here. That is what will continue to keep her here, waiting minute after minute until Santana wakes up.

But it's hard. Nobody said this was going to be easy, and they were right not to because it is far from it. Brittany fights through each second like it could be the last one she'll have with Santana and that terrifies her. It is scary when the difference between life and death is one second. She can't stop thinking about that and the only thing that could possibly take her mind off of it, is if she heard Santana's voice right now, whispering to her sweetly. She even holds her breath temporarily to wait for a sound, anything that could come from her.

Brittany sighs as the only noises continue to be the beeps from the heart monitor and the very faint honks from outside the window. She readjusts her head on Santana's arm and prepares her voice so it becomes something barely audible, barely spoken under her breath, barely heard within the quietude of the room. The familiarity of the words on her tongue smack into her memory like a car crash, so violent and unpredicted. Her throat swells and chest tightens, but she squeezes this out like a strangled plea, a desperately silent cry for help.

"Please say you love me back."

* * *

**A/N: Hi again! I'm sorry for being so late with this. I can't even begin to explain the amount of work I have had in these past few weeks. There was no time for me to write and whenever I was free, my brain was too fried to even think about opening up this document. Thus, it's a little...I don't know, I wouldn't call it my best but I had to get something up here for you guys. Thank you for your patience and your commitment to this story. I promise you, I will NOT give up on it as I don't believe in "shelving" stories. I always have to finish something I've started so you don't have to worry about me ditching this, okay? :) Good, now I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll really try to keep things moving quicker. Let me know your thoughts! :) xx**

**P.S. The dialogue in this chapter doesn't quite focus so much on the drugs because they're all still pretty shocked and are only concerning themselves with making sure Santana is alive. The upcoming chapters will deal more with the consequences and the context of their entire situation, so don't worry about not getting that information yet.**

******P.S.S. Santana's POV is not included here because she isn't conscious (I think you all realized that though :))**

**P.S.S.S. Don't kill me for the "Hurt Locker" reference at the end. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Open Your Eyes Now (I'll Try to Be All That You Need Me to Be)**

"_Open it," Santana instructs, nodding towards the neatly wrapped gift in Brittany's hands. _

_Brittany's eyes widen, head shaking back and forth gently, "No…I can't."_

"_What?" Santana laughs, nudging the gift closer to Brittany, "Do it." _

"_Saaann…" Brittany whines, pouting adorably, "You made me promise we wouldn't get each other gifts this year."_

_Santana's laugh settles into a sly grin, playfully smirking at her girlfriend, "I know, I know but I couldn't help it. Come on just open it, Britt."_

"_Well, what am I supposed to do afterwards?" Brittany asks sadly, eyes dropping to the rug that they were sitting on, "…I didn't get you anything."_

_The grin fades from Santana's face as she watches Brittany sink into a slouch. Santana lifts up from her crossed legged position opposite Brittany and crawls the remaining few feet between them. Brittany notices the movement and peers up, finding Santana's face only inches away from hers. A heavy moment lingers between them, heat from the fireplace warming them comfortably. Santana admires the way the lights from the Christmas tree behind her sparkles in the blue eyes she gazes into. Santana's lips curve up slightly into the sweetest little smile Brittany has ever seen her make and then she leans in to kiss her. She places a soft kiss on Brittany's lips, even with the corners of her mouth still curved upwards. When she finally pulls away after a few lasting seconds, Santana watches the way Brittany's eyes stayed closed after the kiss and then eventually flutter open. _

"_Yes," Santana says slowly, "You did."_

_It takes a moment for Brittany to understand what Santana is referring to, but soon enough it clicks and she feels her cheeks warm intensely. Her head drops to hide the blush before Santana can see it. _

"_Now open my damn present," she orders seriously, and then winks seconds later to break the stern face. _

_Brittany sighs and begins to unwrap the gift, inevitable excitement bubbling in the pit of her stomach. When she pulls off the wrapping paper, she is left with a velvet box in her hand. Immediately she snaps back up at Santana, all the possibilities of what it could be dancing around her thoughts. _

"_Santana…you didn't—"_

"_Just open it," she interrupts, joining her hands together in her lap. _

_Brittany eyes her girlfriend sharply before sighing and returning her attention to the box in her hand. She strokes the soft material it is coated with before finally lifting open the lid. When the item twinkles in her vision, she sucks in a breath and holds it. Santana tilts her head down to catch Brittany's reaction._

"_Wait…wait," Brittany says immediately. _

_It sparkles so brightly at her, the fire beside them illuminating the small diamond on the piece of jewelry displayed inside the box. Brittany's head perks up at Santana and finds her through teary eyes. _

"_Santana…what—"_

"_It's not an engagement ring," Santana clarifies, scooting forwards, "And it's not really a promise ring either."_

_Brittany tilts her head to the side and stares at Santana confusedly, unsure of what kind of ring it is then. She's still shocked that they are even talking about a ring. _

"_It's just a ring to remind you that I'd marry you tomorrow if I could," Santana finishes, her voice growing softer but not any less confident. _

_Brittany sits still, eyes staring at Santana in astonishment. A breath pushes out from her lungs, parting her lips as it blows past. _

"_Merry Christmas, B," Santana wishes but then catches on to Brittany's state of shock, "Look I know you aren't really into the jewelry and the diamond kind of stuff but this is…I bought this because it's not about you or about me, it's about us. And you've always been there for me, through everything, and I thought that enough time had gone by where I wasn't making you mine every minute of every day and I—"_

_Santana is cut off by Brittany's lips crashing against hers. She hums in surprise before succumbing to the kiss and letting her eyes flutter shut. She reaches up to Brittany's neck and pulls her, bringing their mouths closer together. It lasts for a while longer until Brittany finally breaks away and rests her forehead against Santana's, sharing the air with her. _

"_So you like it?" Santana whispers breathlessly, still taken aback by the abrupt nature of the kiss. _

"_I love it," Brittany chokes out happily, "I love you."_

_Santana's next breath is nervous and quivery. Brittany can only assume that it is because Santana loves her too. She can see it in her eyes along with the spark that twinkles there beautifully. Brittany smiles softly before leaning in to place another small kiss on Santana's lips. It's a sweet kiss, the one that they share when one of them is saying thank you or reminding the other of how much they mean to them. When they break apart, Brittany watches Santana's eyes stay closed and a content smile grow on her lips. Brittany shrinks back onto the rug and takes the ring out of the box. She traces her thumb over the small diamond, shaking her head lightly. _

"_Seriously, San…" Brittany begins, "How did you afford this?"_

_Santana smiles to herself, "Six months worth of allowance and pocket money and chores."_

"_But you hate chores," Brittany said confusedly, peering up at Santana. _

"_But I love you," Santana responded immediately, shrugging with the simplicity of her answer. _

_Brittany breathes in her words and lets them float through her serenely, like a stream of warm water trickling down every path of her veins. _

"_Here," Santana says, taking the ring out of Brittany's hand, "May I?"_

_Brittany flushes, cheeks warming and turning pink. She chuckles nervously, holding out her hand for Santana to take as her own. Santana gently places the ring on Brittany's ring finger, tracing it once with a thumb once it's on._

"_I do love you, Brittany," Santana says more seriously, making Brittany glance up from their hands into her eyes, "I'm sorry it took me so long."_

_Brittany presses her lips into a small smile and shakes her head back and forth gently. The gaze continues to comfort her until something suddenly turns cold. Her blood chills and her body now shivers. She glances down to her hand but the ring isn't on her finger. Her head snaps up and catches the last cloud of Santana's body fade away into nothing. The tree is gone, the fire is gone. She panics, her breathing escalating into pants. _

"_Santana?!" she calls out, but all that returns are echoes. _

_Everything begins to dissolve into darkness, even the ground beneath her. She watches the floor crumble away and quickly staggers to her feet. Her body spins around; eyes hitting every surface of the room and watching it disappear. Before she makes it full circle, the ground cracks and collapses underneath her. She falls straight down with a scream. _

The sudden smack against the inside of her chest wakes her abruptly. Brittany jerks up from the bed, breathing heavily as her eyes absorb her surroundings. She finds Santana on the hospital bed first and immediately remembers where she is and why she is here. It takes several moments but she eventually regains control of her mind and body. She reaches up to fix her hair but her fingers catch several beads of sweat dripping from her forehead instead. Brittany wipes the fear and panic off her skin and breathes out steadily, blinking to adjust to the brightness of the room. She falls back into her chair and grips the arms tightly, fingers digging into the cushion. Her head tilts back so she faces upwards towards the ceiling, opening up her airwave to smooth the process of breathing. She can't take how difficult and strangled of a feeling it has become, like the air has dried into cement.

Brittany tries to pinpoint the reason behind this nightmare. While it is December and Christmas is approaching, she doesn't think that had much do to with it because the holiday season hasn't really been on her mind for the past few days. Some way to spend Christmas, though: in the hospital beside the bed where the only person you want to spend the day with lies unconscious. Brittany eyes drop down to her the ring finger on her left hand. Santana's ring isn't there but Brittany knows exactly where it is at home in her apartment. Second drawer to the left.

Brittany quickly shakes the thought from her head because it doesn't make her feel any better about her situation. She's still shaken up from the nightmare but she pushes on to find that trigger underpinning the purpose of it. The scariest thing was that the dream wasn't based on something fictional. The fireplace, the Christmas tree, the ring; that was all true once upon a time in senior year. She remembers opening up the present and finding that ring like it was yesterday. It was the last Christmas she spent with Santana before they broke it off. Perhaps having Santana back in her life again brought the memories back in a dream, but Brittany knows that being in the hospital and seeing Santana lying there is what transformed it all into a nightmare.

"Uhgh," Brittany groans quietly, pushing her face into her hands and bending over.

She must have been a sleep for several hours. It's 1:23 in the afternoon now and she recalls the last time she checked the clock, which happened to be something like 8:15 in the morning. Has she really been asleep this long? That realization frightens her and she suddenly emerges from her hands to look at Santana. She still appears to be a lifeless body in a bed but had she woken up yet? Maybe while Brittany was sleeping? Brittany quickly spins around again to the couch, surprised when she notices neither Quinn nor Tina laying there. She frowns and rubs her eyes, eliciting a yawn in the process. It dawns on her that Santana probably hasn't come around at all yet; otherwise she would have woken up too. Brittany fell asleep on her forearm, so any movement from Santana and she would have felt it. Brittany sighs and sits back in her chair, running anxious fingers through her long blonde hair.

"Anytime now, San," she whispers to Santana, eyes peering hopefully.

The only response Brittany receives is the beeping of the heart monitor. She hates the noise, but at least it's there and beating steadily. She wouldn't know what to do if it were to suddenly revisit the same patterns it did earlier this morning.

"Britt," Tina says pleasantly and Brittany turns to find her friends walking into the room with cups of coffee in their hand, "You're awake."

Tina walks over to Brittany and hands her a cup of coffee.

"Thanks," Brittany says quietly.

"Feeling better?" Quinn asks, plopping herself down on the couch.

Brittany shrugs ambiguously, sipping on her coffee. She doesn't want to tell them about her nightmare. It's a little too personal and they probably wouldn't understand why it made her feel so uncomfortable and disturbed. She glances back at Santana, still believing that in any moment now she could wake up. The doctor said it could take a while until she comes around but Brittany has to believe in better outcomes, better possibilities. She's good at doing that; believing in the small chances. Brittany has this beautiful ambition, this beautiful optimism, and it's one of the few things that keep her going. Right now, it's the only thing that's keeping her going because the other one isn't really doing much besides lying in bed. Santana has always been what helps Brittany get through the day but now that she's short of that, it has become harder. Okay, it's unimaginably harder but the worst thing Brittany could do right now is give up. Even if it's the tiniest sliver of chance in her heart, she will still wait to hear the warmth of Santana's voice again.

"By the way, your phone buzzed a few times," Quinn informs her, pointing at the table where Brittany had set down her purse.

"Crap," she mutters under her breath and pushes the chair back a few feet before standing up, "It's probably Sam."

Quinn's eyebrow lifts suspiciously but she shoves the coffee to her mouth and forces herself to take a sip. Tina eyes Quinn warily; warning her to let it go because now is certainly not the time.

"He doesn't know about any of this right?" Tina wonders curiously.

"No," Brittany explains as she rummages through her bag, "Telling him wasn't really…my priority."

Tina nods understandingly and sips on her coffee, sneaking a glance at Quinn who still keeps the rim of the cup against her lips. Brittany finally finds it and pulls out her phone, searching through the notifications. There are two messages from Sam and several missed calls from the Julliard office where she teaches dance. She immediately chooses to address her work first, scrolling through the call log to find the number. Brittany peeks up from the screen to Santana and studies her briefly before coming back and pressing the call button. She begins to walk towards the door as she presses the phone to her ear and signals to the others that she's just going to step out for a minute or two. Brittany walks into the hallway but turns immediately to stand in front of the window that looks into Santana's hospital room. When they pick up, she proceeds to vaguely explain the details of her absence from work today and calls it 'a family matter'. She ends by asking for the rest of the week off and they thankfully deal with that small inconvenience kindly by giving her the time.

The next thing she moves onto is Sam and his two messages. She knows he's probably wondering why she hasn't come home yet but since he stopped after two texts, Brittany also knows that he must have assumed she was busy handling things with Santana. She sighs when she scans through the texts that ask if she's okay and of her whereabouts. She doesn't really want to explain the past ten hours or what not but there's a pit in her stomach that aches for his comfort. Sam is one of the most important people in her life and one of the main reasons is because he knows how to take care of her in the way she needs to be taken care of sometimes. Brittany knows that Sam will come rushing down to the hospital and just hold her. Right now, that's kind of what she wants and needs.

Brittany initiates the call and takes a deep breath. She almost confuses the ringing of the phone with the beeping from the heart monitor that she has memorized in her head, but then his voice comes through and her heart suddenly drops.

"_Britt? Hey, where are you?"_

Something bubbles at the bottom of her throat and it feels like tears. Brittany swallows roughly but finds that it doesn't do much to rid of the lump that is lodged there. She almost has to strangle the voice out of her.

"Sam," she chokes out as her stomach shifts unnervingly. This is a lot more difficult than she was expecting it to be and it confuses her. She was only planning to update Sam with what happened but suddenly it feels disturbing, like telling a story with the most dreadful ending.

"_Brittany? Are you okay? What's wrong?"_

The worry becomes evident in his voice and through his words. She presses her lips together tightly and stares into the room at Santana on the bed. God it hurts to see what she's seeing. Brittany can't focus with Santana lying there like that. She can't really do anything properly anymore.

"_Hello? Britt?"_

"Sam," she says through a small gasp, "I-I'm sorry I haven't replied…I…it's just…I've been at the hospital."

"_What? What happened? Are you hurt?"_

"No, no," Brittany reassures, but still battles with the growing lump in her throat, "It's not…me, it's Santana. She…she had a, god I don't even know what happened Sam, everything…everything just…I don't know what happened."

"_Okay slow down, talk to me. What happened to Santana, is she okay?"_

"I got there last night…but she…something was wrong and she just," Brittany explains, struggling to recount the incident, "Sam, can you please…can you please just come here? I don't know what to do."

"_Alright, okay I'm on my way, Britt. Hang in tight. I'll get there as fast as I can."_

Brittany nods and tightens the grip on her phone, pressing her lips together too. She waits until Sam hangs up to finally bring the device away from her ear. Her eyes stay glued to Santana but she doesn't want to go back in yet. Everything feels more dangerous inside there, like every edge of every surface—and even the air—is sharp and jagged and ready to cause harm. Before anything, Brittany uses this moment to take a deep breath. She makes it with an inhale, holds it and slowly begins to let go of the air when she hears footsteps approaching quickly. Her head snaps down the hallway and notices Puck running into the room. He slows down when he notices Brittany and eyes her confusedly before poking his head inside, hands gripping the door frame. Quinn or Tina must have called him.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, stumbling into the room and heading towards Santana's side, "Jesus Christ…"

His words trail off into a mutter as he examines the body in the bed. Quinn and Tina stand up and make their way to Puck, but Brittany watches all three from outside. She can't move. She tells herself that she wants to go back in but she knows she's lying because she would have gone in by now if it were true. She doesn't want to be a part of that whole mess yet, not right now.

"What happened?" Puck asks worriedly.

"Puck," Quinn says calmly, placing a hand on his arm, "Slow down."

"Not until you tell me what's going on," he retorts and Quinn and Tina share a look, "And when did this happen?"

"She…had some kind of panic attack last night and passed out," Quinn explains naturally is if rehearsed.

"Last night!?" Puck exclaims, before looking at the watch on his hand, "You waited…what, fifteen hours to call me!?"

"I'm sorry," Quinn says sarcastically, "We were a little preoccupied with things."

Puck huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, "What…why would she have a panic attack?"

"She was on cocaine," Tina mutters quietly.

Puck's eyes widen and snap back to Santana, studying her briefly as he pulls his thoughts together.

"Shit," Puck curses, stepping away and reaching up to his head, "I knew it."

"What?" both Tina and Quinn exclaim.

"No, I didn't _know,_" Puck elaborates defensively, "I just…I knew something was wrong and the girls at the bar…you know, they do that shit but fuck, I didn't want to believe that was what was up with her."

"How could you not tell us about this, Puck?" Tina asks angrily, "Did you ever ask her about it?"

"I could _barely _talk to the woman," Puck says, raising his voice, "Everything I said she practically shut down."

"You should have told us, Puck!" Quinn says, "Maybe we could have done something about it."

"Don't you think I would have said something if I knew?!" Puck retorts, "And why are you getting mad at me? Where were you guys in all of this? Have you even been trying?!"

"Don't you dare, Pucker—"

"Okay stop!" Brittany interrupts as she storms into the room.

Everybody freezes and the room falls silent, heads snapping back to look at Brittany.

"Stop it," she repeats, frowning in disappointment, "We are all on the same side here! We are all here for the same reason! Santana is lying in this damn hospital bed and you're all here fighting about whom to blame and whose fault it was and what could have been but just stop it! I know we're all angry and confused and upset but we can't let it take control of ourselves. The last thing she needs is all of us screaming and fighting over this. Grow up, all of you, and just be here for her."

Quinn, Puck and Tina are stunned by Brittany's outburst and remain speechless. Puck stuffs his hands into his pockets with a huff and backs away from the bed towards the wall. Quinn sighs and reaches up to massage her temples after letting her anger get the best of her.

"Brittany's right, guys," Tina says quietly, "We shouldn't be blaming each other. If anything, this was all a little bit our fault."

Brittany sighs and presses her lips together tightly at Tina, silently thanking her for agreeing.

"Sorry," Quinn mutters.

"Yeah, sorry, Britt," Puck adds sympathetically.

They all shift to their comfort zones within the room; Puck against a wall, Quinn and Tina on the couch and Brittany on the sofa chair closest to Santana. They spend the silence mulling over their own thoughts and queries for in each there are plenty. Puck is only just beginning to adjust to the situation and it will take him a while. He didn't know Santana was involved with cocaine but he knew that some of the other waitresses at the bar did drugs. He has had suspicions since he stumbled upon Santana that one time with swollen eyes and nose but he thought she might have been crying. While that wasn't good, it was better than thinking she had been sniffing a line somewhere in the back. Puck thought he knew Santana enough to decide for himself that she wasn't stupid enough to get herself into that 'business'. Finding out that he was wrong is only the cherry on top of this poisonous cake.

"Oh my god," someone says from the door with a higher, more squeamish kind of voice.

They all turn to find an overwhelmed Rachel Berry standing just inside the room with a hand covering her mouth.

"Rachel?" Quinn says, breathing out confusedly.

She turns to look at Quinn through teary eyes before shifting back to Santana. Nobody has really heard from her personally in weeks. They've only gotten updates from Puck.

"What happened to her?" she asks worriedly as she approaches the bed, "Oh my god, Santana…"

"She had a panic attack," Tina fills in, assuming that's what they're calling it for now.

"Oh gosh," Rachel says dramatically, "I-I'm…can she hear me?"

"No," Brittany informs her, knowing very well that Santana can't hear her.

Rachel peers up from the bed towards Brittany and only then does reality sink in, "Brittany?"

"Hi, Rachel," Brittany adds, standing up from the chair.

"Hi, oh my gosh," Rachel says before making her way around the bed towards Brittany and wrapping her arms around for a hug.

The embrace takes her by surprise but Brittany doesn't dismiss the opportunity to reciprocate the hug warmly. Rachel has always been a little strange for her but it never really bothered her. Brittany liked her.

When they separate, Rachel grips Brittany's arms securely and looks at her sympathetically, "I'm so sorry about…Santana."

"Yeah," Brittany murmurs, dropping her head sadly because she's reminded fully of the entire incident.

"But it's good to see you," Rachel adds in a more pleasant tone before breaking away and turning to the rest of the members, "You guys too, I'm sorry I've been so busy lately."

"Where have you been?" Tina asks.

"I've been back and forth around the whole city doing shows with the company," Rachel explains, "I had to spend a few days in Brooklyn with the crew for my final performance but it's done now and I don't have any major shows coming up at the moment. Plus, I've opted to take a little break to catch up on school and spend time with Noah. But gosh, no, we're not here for me. I'm just so worried about Santana."

Rachel brings back the gravity of their situation and makes her way to Puck, falling into his open arms for comfort.

"Yeah," Tina adds heavily, "We all are."

"Brittany," another new member says as they hurriedly stumble into the room.

Brittany looks up to find Sam there panting from having rushed over here for her. A little piece of her hope comes back together as she immediately hurries to the door, flinging herself into his arms. He wraps her up wholly and holds her tightly, eyes shutting temporarily before opening them again and finding Santana's body in the bed. It feels so weird for him because he just saw her last night and suddenly here she is. It feels like reading the first page of a novel and then skipping to the middle.

"It's okay," Sam whispers when he feels Brittany's body shake lightly, hand rubbing her back soothingly.

The rest of them study Sam and Brittany, learning a little bit more about their relationship. Tina isn't taken by surprise because she was there to see them grow close but the other three don't quite understand how it works. Either way, they keep quiet because their confusion about Sam and Brittany isn't the important thing here and certainly not what they should be focused on. Brittany feels Sam tighten the grip and it makes her cry a little harder because she feels like she can fall apart now with his support.

"Shh," Sam hushes, stroking her hair, "I got you."

His eyes wander the room and land on Quinn, staring briefly when she peers up at him, but then move on to the rest.

"Is she alright for now?" he asks the rest regarding Santana's current state. Brittany knows the question wasn't directed to her so she doesn't even bother responding to it. She just buries her face into the crook of Sam's neck and sinks into his comfort.

"She's fine," Tina says, "…for now."

He nods gladly before twisting down to look at Brittany, "Hey…come on."

Sam takes her hand and walks them to the chair she was sitting on before he had arrived. He sits Brittany down before sliding in next to her and wrapping his arm around her again, pulling her back for the hug. She more than willingly lets him take care of her because after Santana of course, Sam is the only one who knows how to do it best.

"Thank you," she whispers to him and nestles into his body.

It's the first time they've all been in the same room together since high school. Disregarding Santana's condition, it's already a little strange but to add all of that, it's easy for them to say this is the most unpredictable dilemma they've ever found themselves buried in. Well, for Quinn it's slightly harder to compare considering all she has been through but it's still difficult and stressful to be waiting in the hospital for her best friend to wake up. They all sink into the silence now; eyes floating back to Santana, bodies shifting back to their respective spots in the room. Nobody will admit to it but while odd, it feels a little better to be here altogether. Sometimes we don't really know how much we needed someone until they arrive. Our eyes suddenly open and discover the reality that unfortunate situations can't be erased or removed but they can be fought and with a little a few additional helping hands, they can be overcome too.

* * *

"Wow, full house," Dr. Sanders comments as he walks into the room, noticing the slight increase in visitors.

Everybody perks up from their seats after having spent the past hour or so waiting and catching up and doing whatever they can to fill time. Quinn, Tina and Brittany haven't gone home yet since the incident but they're going to have to at one point to freshen up. They're all just a little scared that the second they step out of the hospital Santana could wake up—or she could…

"It's good to know Ms. Lopez has a strong support system," he continues, approaching the end of the bed and pulling out Santana's chart.

He flicks through the pages and examines the recent recordings. Brittany eyes him more carefully than others, studying every twitch in his eyebrow and lips. Nothing seems too alarming with the way he reads the statistics so she allows herself to take a breath, but the tension doesn't dissolve yet. It never will until Santana's eyes open and find her again.

"Is everything alright?" Rachel asks worriedly, pressing a hand to her chest.

"Well, her vitals are still lower than we want them to be," Dr. Sanders reports, "But she's getting better. We just need her to come around soon."

"You said that could be tonight, right?" Brittany asks hopefully, sitting up straighter.

"I-I said…it is likely that she will, yes," he explains with the slightest hesitance, "But I can't say for sure."

"Right," Brittany says understandingly, "Of course."

She gradually sinks back into the chair and rests her head on Sam's shoulder. He turns and kisses her forehead sweetly.

Dr. Sanders glances around the room at everyone else and clears his throat, "Make sure you all stay active and keep to your normal schedules. These situations can become extremely stressful for friends and family. It's important that you stay healthy too."

With a pressed smile, he clicks his pen and slides it back into his coat pocket. Dr. Sanders turns around to leave the room and Quinn spends half a second contemplating her next move before jumping up and following him out. She catches him just as he starts down the hallway, a hand reaching out to stop him.

"Excuse me, Dr. Sanders?" Quinn calls out.

He turns around in surprise, "Hi, yes, Ms. Fabray. How can I help you?"

"I…well," Quinn stutters, "…the surgery. Is that…still the solution to this?"

Dr. Sanders sighs and folds his arms across his chest, "It is looking more likely to be, yes."

"Okay…okay but," Quinn struggles, "I've been thinking about it a lot and I…I just don't understand why she needs surgery. I thought cocaine damaged the tissue in the nose, not the heart."

"That's true," he explains, "And I'm surprised her nose isn't in a worse condition than it is. But the heart tissue damage is one of the long term affects which is why I made the assumption that she has been doing this for quite some time now. Cocaine immediately affects the heart by increasing blood pressure and palpitations and this puts the heart under a lot of stress. One of the main reasons this has created so much damage is because of how young she is. 21, am I right?"

"Yeah, 21," Quinn assures.

"May I ask what she does for a living?" he wonders, "Because it also seems that the rest of her body is not strong enough to help support her heart when it has been compromised."

Quinn sighs deeply, "She's a bartender. She works late and she's tired all the time."

The doctor nods expectedly, "Well, that's something she might have to change about her lifestyle. Ms. Lopez is not going to be able to keep up her previous habits once she has recovered from this."

"I know," Quinn says, "I'll see to that."

"Good," he says, "And have I answered your questions?"

"Yeah, well," Quinn responds, "I just…is this the only way she'll get better? Can she do without it?"

"She can and there are chances she will recover without the surgery," he reveals.

"But you said it was necessary…" Quinn recalls him saying earlier.

"If she wants to get better the most efficient way," he explains, "Look, I know surgery sounds scary but what we plan to do is repair some damaged tissue. It's a very delicate procedure but I have performed it many times and I know what I am doing."

"It's just," Quinn murmurs, "That's my best friend in there. She's…she's like my other half and I need her to live. I need her to get through this but I don't like the sound of a surgery, it feels too risky."

"Ms. Fabray," Dr. Sanders starts, "This isn't the first time I've dealt with a patient who has been on cocaine. She will probably refuse the idea when we tell her about it but I need you to explain to her that this is what she needs. Listen to me, Ms. Lopez can get better without it but she is going to have to make some serious sacrifices and even then, there's no guarantee how long it's going to take. The surgery will take care of the physical damage right away so she can move into therapy and rehabilitation."

"And you're sure about this?" Quinn asks again.

"I am sure," he states simply, placing a hand on her arm before smiling softly.

He takes a few steps backwards before turning around and walking down the hallway, disappearing behind a corner. Quinn sighs knowing it was right to ask him because she feels the slightest bit more confident about all of this. The more she thought about it, the more it scared her. Santana has to be opened up and fixed. That didn't sound comforting at all and she needed a more reliable, more credible reason for it being the solution that they were going to take in Santana's recovery.

"She's getting that surgery," Brittany says and Quinn snaps around to find her standing a few feet behind her, leaning against the frame of the door.

"What?"

"You said it too," Brittany reminds her, "And you're right."

"How long have you been standing there?" Quinn wonders.

"Long enough to know she's getting that surgery," Brittany replies.

"I know," Quinn says slowly, settling down from the sudden intrusion, "Um...I'm sorry about...getting worked up earlier."

Brittany nods, accepting her apology before glancing over her shoulder into the room to check on Santana. It's become an instinct now, every thirty seconds.

"How are you…holding up, Britt?" Quinn asks carefully, squinting in sympathy, "I know you didn't exactly sign up for this when we called you."

She chokes out a small laugh, feeling the dark humor ease into the conversation, "A little heads up would have been nice, I guess."

Quinn smiles softly at Brittany's ability to make light of the situation. It's no laughing matter but they aren't really joking about anything. It's just something to replace the heaviness that keeps dragging each of them down.

"I just feel…completely lost," Brittany answers seriously, "I mean, the past couple years were hard without her but at least I had this idea that she was out here in New York fulfilling her dreams. Or trying to at least. That kept me going. I should feel glad that I'm here for her and not stuck back in Lima without a clue but it's even scarier now because she's not really…here. I mean, you can't call her Santana, that's not Santana."

"I get it," Quinn says in agreement, "For the past six months the girl I've been living with hasn't really been Santana. It's frightening but…I…think we can start to understand things better from here."

"Quinn," Brittany starts and waits for her to gesture that she continue. She receives the nod from Quinn and swallows hardly.

"I know we don't get along as well I'd hope but…I love Santana," Brittany explains, "I love her more than anything in this world and I know that you love her too. I know she's your best friend, I know that you care about her as much as I do. So I'm sorry if…I'm sorry if I've been arguing with you guys. I'm just—"

"Terrified," Quinn interrupts, finishing her sentence.

Brittany smiles weakly and says through a quivery voice, "Yeah."

Quinn nods and steps in to pull Brittany into a hug, "I know, Brittany. I know how much you love her. Hell, I think we both knew before Santana did."

Brittany chuckles and pulls away from the embrace, "She was a bit slow with that, wasn't she?"

"Yes and no," Quinn says, "Santana took longer than she needed to come forward about her feelings for you but Santana has always loved you, Brittany. For as long as I can remember, you've been the one."

The words meet her harshly and Brittany finds that lump return in her throat. Her smile falters a little because hearing that makes it all that much more difficult to wait. She never really knew patience could be so hard to keep.

"She's going to come through," Quinn assures her, rubbing Brittany's arm gently, "She's not going to give up on herself and you know why?"

Brittany tilts her head to the side curiously, signaling for Quinn to finish her sentence.

"Because I think she knows she's worth something again," Quinn explains, shrugging, "Tina and I, even Puck, we couldn't make her see that but you did. You showed her she was worth something."

"How do you even know if I did that?" Brittany asks quietly.

"Because you've been here two weeks Brittany and in those two weeks, Santana has said more to us than she has in the past four months," Quinn reveals, "I wish that I could be the one to, you know, help her see that she is still important but it wasn't me and I knew it wasn't going to be me. That's why we called you, Brittany. Not because you are the love of her life but because you are the only one that can make Santana look herself in the mirror and see what we all see. I don't know how you do it, you just do."

"I want to believe that, Quinn," Brittany says, dropping her head, "But she wouldn't be in that bed if I had done my job."

"Santana might not even be here at all if you hadn't shown up, Brittany," Quinn says truthfully, "But she is."

Brittany feels the lump consume her completely and result in a few tears pouring over her eyelids. She sniffs them away once she realizes that she's crying but Quinn already notices and there's no point in hiding.

"Uhh," she mumbles, "Why did you have to say that?"

Quinn laughs quietly before reaching out to take Brittany's hand, "I thought I was helping."

Brittany shakes her head at the fact that she's crying and sniffs away the last of the tears, squeezing Quinn's hand back, "You are."

* * *

A few hours have gone by since Puck, Rachel and Sam showed up and they've spent it waiting. Waiting for something good, waiting for...something. It is one thing to keep hope, but it's another thing to keep hope when the chances that go against us are so much stronger and higher and powerful. It's a lot like standing just out from shore in the ocean. We plant ourselves there where the water is just above our knees and we dig our toes into the sand for a grip. We watch the wave build up a few meters ahead and we clench our fists by our sides, straightening up our bodies as tall and firm as we can. The wave is only a few seconds away and we can feel the water sucking out to sea. The shadow falls over us and there's one, maybe two seconds, before we're hit and instead of staying put we find ourselves crashing into the water along with the force of the wave. We're underwater and lost until the surface meets us again and we shoot up, gasping for air. Keeping hope in this situation with Santana is like going back to try again against another wave, determined to stay standing. The only thing that worries Brittany, and Quinn and Tina and the rest is the moment it all gets too exhausting. The moment where those waves are just too strong and it's been made clear that there is no competition between man and nature. Along with many other fears, they are all scared of when the time will come when they have lost their breath and their energy and their determination to keep fighting.

"You coming, Britt?" Tina asks, eyebrows arched.

The group had all begun to shuffle out of the room because they were planning to head to the cafeteria and get some dinner. Brittany hadn't really been paying attention to any of their chatter but instead kept her eyes focused on Santana. Well, she wasn't really focused on her more or less in the direction of her. Her eyes were lost somewhere else, probably far away from anything in this room. Sam was still sitting beside her but he was engaging in a conversation with Quinn who had come to sit in another chair closer to them.

"Um…Britt?" Tina tries again and this time is able to catch Brittany's attention.

"Hmm?" Brittany hums densely, glancing around the room to notice that Puck, Rachel, Quinn and Tina had all stood up and adjusted themselves as if they were leaving somewhere. She glances over to Sam when she feels him begin to shift too.

"Are you coming?" Tina asks, "We're just going to grab something to eat down at the cafeteria."

"Oh," she says, sitting up and shifting gazes between several people in the room, "Uh…no, no I'm not hungry."

"You sure?" Sam asks, tugging on his jeans once he stands up, "When was the last time you ate?"

"Don't worry about it, you guys go," Brittany insists, "I think I'll just…stay here with her."

They don't ask again because they know that Brittany has made her decision. Despite how long it's been since high school and since most of them have seen Brittany and Santana together, nobody doubts the love between them. It's definitely there and not only is it there but it's there openly and brightly and obviously. Quinn, Tina and Sam can see as clear as a sunny day and even Puck and Rachel don't question it. Instead they all nod understandingly and make their way out the room.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" Sam asks thoughtfully, kneeling down to meet Brittany's level.

"No, I'm fine," Brittany says with a weak smile, "I don't want you to have to give up the jello anyway."

Sam laughs quietly, appreciating Brittany's light sense of humor in this stressful time, "I'll bring you back something."

He clicks his tongue before leaning in and placing a kiss on Brittany's cheek, squeezing her hand softly too. He stands up and walks out of the room to join the rest of the group. Brittany's smile lingers until it all falls quiet again and she's left with the beeping of the monitor. It's like her best friend now, always there. She lets out a deep sigh and scoots her chair closer towards the bed so that she's practically against it. She pulls her feet up onto the cushion and crosses her legs, grabbing her hair in a fistful to tie it up into a bed simultaneously. A cold air settles into the room and she finds herself reaching to her jacket that she draped around the back of the chair. Brittany slides her arms through it and pulls it down over her, feeling the warmth gradually fight off the goose bumps.

"I hope you aren't cold too," Brittany says quietly, eyes peering up at Santana.

She's kind of used to no response now. It doesn't mean she's given up, it just means she's learned a little more about how to be realistic. Brittany reaches out and fixes the sheet over Santana more securely, tucking her in.

"Rachel and Puck are here," she continues, "They were both really worried, San."

Brittany pulls back and shifts her body to one end of the chair, leaning on the arm. She grabs her feet and tucks them in underneath her.

"We're all here," Brittany says, "We all love you, okay?"

Even without a reply, Brittany feels like Santana can hear her. At least, she believes that Santana knows just how much people actually care about her. Brittany takes a deep breath and glances down at her fingers, picking at her nails nervously. The air grows heavy and thick, making it a little more difficult to breathe. She hates that constrained feeling in her chest, like there's a pile of weight sitting on top of her body.

"I know you're trapped, Santana," she starts to say, "I know something is…stuck inside you. I don't know what it is but I know that's what's wrong."

She reaches out and takes Santana's hand in hers, still hating the way it feels so limp and lifeless.

"I know because…" she explains, drawing light patterns on Santana's skin "The fear used to eat you away in high school. It was so…poisonous and it was living inside you and you let it rip you apart. It's happening again now and I don't know why but I know that it has to stop. I know you can't hear me or see where you are but…you're in a hospital, San. I need you to see that you can't keep this up, you have to…tell me what it is. Or tell someone…anyone, please."

Brittany feels her heart pounding in her ears, the blood rushing a little too quickly. She blows out a steady breath and returns Santana's hand to the bed gently. She falls back and rests her head on her hand that she keeps propped up on the arm of her chair. There are so many things she wants to tell Santana and she hates that they can only be said for now, not heard. Brittany feels likes she's tugging on a rope where Santana is supposed to be on the other end, and every pull brings her closer, but nothing shows up. The great thing about Brittany, though, is that despite not seeing Santana on the other side yet, she simply believes that the rope is just a really, really, _really_, long rope. And just like all ropes, they must come to an end at some point. She's just waiting for Santana, nothing else.

* * *

Beep.

It's a soft, barely audible sound in the far distance, like a faint echo lost between the trees of a vast meadow.

Beep.

Now it's a little louder, a little clearer and distinct enough to separate it from something pertaining to nature. No, it is most definitely _un_natural.

Beep.

Whatever it is, it matches with something; another sound, no, another pulse, **yours**.

Beep.

There it is again, triggering the same time your heart beats. Oh.

Beep.

Crisper than the crunch of autumn leaves and sharper than a jagged knife.

Sensations slowly emerge from their shadows; your body on a soft mattress, your head against a pillow, something in both your arms. Something, but what? Rewind it backwards just a tiny bit. Mattress, pillow...wires. They're wires, no not wires, needles, they must be, needles pinching, piercing through skin at the creases of your arms. You don't have needles at home; that's simple, of course, because you're not at home. Underneath your nose too, there's something there. Something, but again, what? Backtrack again, follow the steps. Mattress, pillow, needles...tubes. Two of them, small tubes, in both nostrils. There's only one place that has those, where is it? Think harder, use your brain. What brain? The one that you've damaged so carelessly? Yes, that one. Use it to your best ability.

A signal must have been sent successfully because your eyes begin to peel open. They feel rusty, dried up like you haven't used them in days. For now, all you see is white, but why so much, where is the color, where is the world? You blink, blink again, and keep blinking until something comes into view. A couch? Is that it? It seems like the most reasonable assumption once the colors slowly fade into your world again. You blink hardly and this time when you open your eyes, it's all there, the entire spectrum. You turn slowly towards the door and notice the movement beyond it; nurses, doctors, random strangers or visitors. Their voices are distant and faint, but at least you can hear something other than the beeping now.

"Santana?" a voice murmurs sleepily, but not just any voice.

Quicker than you've been able to identify anything else, you recognize that tone. You swallow roughly and move your head to the other side of the room. Your eyes suddenly crash against soft baby blues and you let go of a heavy breath. Your lips part from the pressure of the air but it stings because they're so dry and chapped. You can feel the skin split and you wouldn't be surprised if you tasted blood in a few seconds, but that's not really on your mind right now. Not when she's staring at you bewilderedly.

"Santana, oh my god," Brittany says overwhelmingly, leaning forward and taking your hand.

You don't feel much besides her hand holding yours. In other words, you don't feel warmth just yet. It scares you enough to glance down at your joined hands and confront yourself with the reality that your entire body is numb.

"Hi, hey," Brittany says through a watery smile, eyes filling with tears.

You stick your chin out as you swallow again, lips parting to see if you can say something back to her but you can't. Your eyes turn fearful and you glance around the room worriedly, suddenly realizing the entirety of your situation. The fluorescent lights beam down at you painfully. You're in the hospital. Shit, you're in the hospital. They know what happened; they know what put you in this bed. Fuck. Do you even remember what happened? Your mind tries to fill in the blanks but nothing fits together. The last thing you can remember is…talking to Sam? Wait, Sam? Why is Sam the first thing you can recall?

"Hey hey," Brittany says quickly, rubbing your hand to try and get you to look at her again, "Santana…it's okay, you're okay."

You turn back to her and feel something kick against your chest, like a faulty heartbeat. Strangely enough, you hear something else beat at exactly the same time. The noise continues in the same rhythm as that pump inside your chest and you search to find the source. You can't lift your head up off the pillow yet so you lean back and look up, finding the monitor reading the beats of your heart. It terrifies you. That machine feels invasive and manipulative, like it knows something about you that you don't even know.

A hand brushes away a strand of hair from your face and you slowly come back to look at her again. She's not smiling anymore but you can tell she's trying to. Her cheeks are stained with tears but they aren't sad tears. It looks more like she's crying of relief and it makes you wonder just how long you've been unconscious for.

"You're here," she coughs out, "San, you're here."

Your lips part to try and say something again, "Wha…"

The crack in your throat cuts off your voice and you wince at the pain that soon follows. She shakes her head and scoots even closer, gripping your hand in between both of hers.

"It's okay, you don't have to say anything yet," Brittany tells you.

You frown at her, wondering why she's is acting so generous. They all found out about you and what you've been getting yourself into. Is Brittany the only one who stayed? Quinn? Tina? Did they all leave you? The thought of it makes your stomach twist uncomfortably and your chest cave in around your heart. The pressure inside you increases and it begins to feel like someone is pushing down on your chest. You suck in a strangled breath and let your head sink further into the mattress, eyes closing as you try to keep your breathing patterns calm.

"Santana," Brittany whispers, stroking your arm, "Just breathe, you're okay."

You let her words do the caretaking and piece you back together. They slip into your skin, into your body, and act like water putting out any flames that burn inside you. You're still so confused about the consequences that have risen from this entire incident. There's no running anymore and that just about terrifies you. The truth, or the truths, however many there may be, are going to surface whether you like it or not.

"Does it hurt anywhere?" Brittany asks softly.

Your eyes peel open again and turn to face her, watching those worried eyes burn into yours. She doesn't seem angry at all but you can't figure out why. You know she isn't okay with you taking drugs but all you feel from her is the immense love and concern she pours over you. It reminds you of what she asked and you quickly try to give her some kind of response, just so she can feel a little at peace with all of this. You don't know how long you've been out for or what's happened since you blacked out, but you can only imagine that it has been the most stressful time for Brittany and Quinn and Tina. God, what have you put them through?

She keeps staring into you, waiting for a reply, so you do the best that you can. You swallow hardly and slowly move your head from left to right. You're not lying because it doesn't really 'hurt' anywhere. It all just feels stiff and numb and uncomfortable, like you've been removed from your own skin. The idea feels even more realistic than it normally should considering you're in a place where they actually perform those kinds of procedures: surgically remove things.

"Good," she murmurs, "That's good, San."

You're scared. It's the first thing you felt when you started being able to feel things again. Impulsively, you twist your hand around until you can almost wrap your fingers around the side of her palm. It takes so much energy, to the point where you realize you can't even muster enough to complete the gesture. She feels it though. Brittany glances down and feels the tiny pressure you're applying into the grip and coughs out a weak smile, tightening her hold on you. It's exactly what you wanted her to do. The only thing that you've ever known could stop you from feeling so completely terrified and lost is Brittany. Even now, especially now, she's the eyes you're going to have to look into in order to feel safe. You don't know anything about your situation; the problems, the solutions, the reactions people had. You don't know anything except for the fact that you're in a hospital and Brittany is sitting beside you with your hand sandwiched between hers.

You tilt you head back into the pillow to loosen up your throat.

"Br..itt," you attempt to say but all that comes out is a hoarse, grainy whisper.

She peers up immediately, eyes searching yours to see if she can maybe help you out a little with what you want to tell her. You want her to know that you're sorry and that there's a reason, there's an explanation. You want her to know why you were using drugs. You want to remind her that she had nothing to do with any of this, any of your mistakes. Then something surprises you, frightens you, because you want to tell her _everything. _

"I-I…" you start again but your voice still breaks before you can continue.

"Santana, it's okay," Brittany reminds you, "Don't say anything right now."

"No…I ne—"

"Ms. Lopez?" a man says pleasantly by the door but it takes you a while to turn your head, "Welcome back."

With his outfit, you can tell he's a doctor but you don't like that sound of his voice. It's too low and unfamiliar for you. You would much rather like to hear hers, Brittany's, the one that your body knows, loves and recognizes anywhere. That feeling brings you back to her, your head turning to tell her that you're scared and you need her.

"She…can't talk," Brittany explains, still holding your hand tightly.

"Oh well that's normal," he informs her before turning to you, "Most patients in a case like yours can barely muster enough energy for the smallest movements like blinking once they wake up."

"But she'll get better?" Brittany suddenly asks, frightened by the doctor's comment.

"Of course, of course," he clarifies and then approaches the side of the bed, "Hi, I'm Dr. Sanders. I'll be working with you for a while."

You blink widely and watch him read something on the clipboard which you can only assume is your chart. You sneak a glance towards the heart monitor again and squeeze Brittany's hand tighter, feeling her reciprocate the gesture with the company of a few soothing strokes on your skin.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks as he pulls out his stethoscope and places the ear buds in his ears, "Just go ahead and nod or shake your head, you don't have to talk."

You nod just for the sake of it. Obviously, you are not feeling alright because you're in the hospital and your head pounds and your chest pressurizes and your emotions run amuck all over the place. The coolness hits your bare chest harshly when he presses the head of the tool to your skin. Dr. Sanders pauses and listens to your heartbeat, eyes squinting as he evaluates it with his professional opinion. He slowly begins to nod and eventually removes the chest-piece away.

"Sounds good so far," he reports and you hear Brittany release a breath of air that must have been clogging the pathway of her throat, "Can you try to sit up for me?"

You can barely talk and yet he seems to think you can move on your own. Seeing that he _has _asked you, believing that you should be able to do it, you just decide to give it your best shot. You press your free hand into the mattress and try to apply force against it so you can slide up and then lean forward. Brittany automatically helps you by gripping your forearm and slowly lifting you up and over. It didn't feel too difficult but you know that was only because she was there to guide you. There's no guarantee you could have done that on your own, even something as simple as sitting up from a bed.

Dr. Sanders joins in too and helps you bend forward once you have sat up. Your head explodes as the pulse beats at your temples, pounding like a bass speaker at a party. It feels so uncomfortable inside your head, as if the veins there have swelled and bruised and the blood that flows only brings attention to that pain. He finds the spot on your back and places the head of the stethoscope onto your skin, listening intently for any abnormalities. You take the quick moment to turn and look at Brittany through fearful eyes. She catches your gaze and it locks, keeping your eyes on each other until the doctor's voice breaks the moment.

"Alright!" he says, pulling off the device from your skin and from his ears, "Heartbeat sounds good for now."

Instead of lying back down flatly, you scoot up further and then lean back so that your upper body is more elevated than before. It doesn't help with the throbs that blast against the inside of your head but you don't think lying down would make any difference either.

"Well, Ms. Lopez," he begins and you look away from Brittany to him, "It's good progress to see you awake after…about eighteen hours now."

Eighteen hours. Holy shit.

"But I'm afraid that's most of the good news already," Dr. Sanders continues, his tone sparking a poisonous cloud of darkness in your stomach, "There are serious problems concerning your health that have been brought to our attention."

You quickly steal a glance towards Brittany and she notices the fear and worry in your eyes almost immediately. She brings your hand up to her lips and holds it against them. You feel the softness brush against the back of your hand but the gesture makes you so incredibly nervous that it almost eliminates the soothing affect. What have you gotten yourself into?

"While you were out, you suffered from cardiac arrest," he informs you but it all feels to complicated and confusing, "Meaning your heart began to fail and at one point, stopped working. We had to use the defibrillators to revive your heartbeat two times until you came back."

The only thing that comes to your mind is that moment on every doctor TV show where the patient's heart monitor falls flat and beeps at a constant tone without interruption as the staff runs in and tries to bring them back. Suddenly you can't even let yourself think about it because it's not just a character or a fake situation anymore, it's you. You were on that bed. You were the one dying. That one word tears through your stomach and you think you might be sick.

"To put it simply," Dr. Sanders explains, "Your heart has been damaged by the drugs you've been using. There's some tissue we will need to repair, which means you are going to need a surgery."

No, you _know _you're going to be sick. You lunged forward and feel the bile gurgle in your stomach, slowly beginning its way up your digestive system. Brittany straightens up quickly but doesn't get too close because she knows what's about to happen. The doctor manages to retrieve the waste bin from the nearest corner of the room and bring it back to you, placing in front of you on your legs. The moment it sits securely beneath you, the vomit urges its way up forcefully and you puke into the bucket. The acid stings your throat and mouth as your eyes shut, tears gathering in the corners. You feel a hand press against your back but the moment you feel the strokes, you know it is Brittany's act of comforting you. You cough and gag and spit until most of it feels relieved from your stomach. Tears drip down your cheek from the process.

"Here," she says quietly and you open your watery eyes to find tissues being offered.

You take them and wipe your mouth thoroughly, throwing the waste into the bucket once you feel you've done a good enough job. You grip the edge of the trash can and move it away from you, leaning over a little to place it onto the ground. With some help, though you feel incredibly embarrassed, the doctor makes sure it meets the floor without tilting or knocking over.

"That's also normal," Dr. Sanders comments, "I know it's a lot to take in."

Without looking at either of them, you slowly fall back against the pillow and keep your eyes closed. You sniff and use the extra tissue to wipe your cheeks.

"Do you have any questions for me?" the doctor wonders, "If not, I think the best thing right now is for you to get some more rest before we discuss the options."

You shake your head, eyes still shut, and listen closely as his feet begin to shift against the ground.

"I'll come back in a few hours to check on you again," he reminds you.

The next thing you hear is the clacking of the clipboard against some other surface and then his footsteps growing fainter. You almost believe that you're alone now until she tightens her grip on your hand and you are reminded of Brittany. God, she had to see that. You hate that she not only had to sit here for the past eighteen hours, plus witness the actual incident, but also then watch you puke your guts out. On top of that, you've just been told you need heart surgery. If there's a point lower than this, you'd take a wild guess and say it is death. You don't seem as far away from it as you thought you were based on the fact that you apparently did die for a few seconds under that cardiac arrest. It feels so strange when you think about it: that your heart stopped working. You had practically lifted your foot off the ground to take a step into whatever world you go to once your time is finished in this one, but luckily never ended up planting it down.

The darkness you've restored in your vision makes you feel calmer. Your eyelids are too heavy so now that you've closed them, you're finding it a lot harder to stay awake. You're not sure you can anymore, especially considering your head starts to fall to one side and your conscious keeps snapping out of reality every few seconds. You don't have any strength nor are you even in the right mindset to be giving yourself orders about what to move and how to move it. It's as if you keep sending off the signals to do something, to react, but there's a broken track along the way that stops it from ever reaching its destination. Your mind goes quiet again and you listen, but this time there's nothing. There are no voices, no sounds, nothing and that tells you how close you are towards alternating between worlds again. You don't want to collapse into there again. You're afraid that death has merely disguised itself as sleep so that you'll come across it easier. You think about the fact that going to sleep right now might not mean going to 'sleep' but something else, something a little more permanent. It's a terrifying realization but strangely enough, that's not what you're scared of the most. What really frightens you is the possibility that you might accidentally give in, thinking it's just a few minutes of rest, and then find you don't return to this world where you exist. Where she exists. Brittany. No, wait. No, Brittany. You can't, you won't.

Suddenly you force yourself to peel your eyes open and find her again. Everything initially appears blurry until you've blinked and adjusted enough to see clearly. She's still here, beside you, holding your hand and when your eyes meet that familiar blue, you know you can't let go. Even if it that feels like the easier option. That's another scary thing: letting go feels like the solution that would take the least effort and the least difficulty. It very well might be but you can't take it. You will not take it because when you look into Brittany's eyes, you see all the reasons why_ she _needs you to live. And in those reasons is your reason.

You don't even realize she is crying until Brittany breaks away to look down, sniffing audibly. You wish you could hold her but unlike past times when it was your mind stopping you, this time it's your body that simply can't perform that large of an act. Instead, you squeeze her hand a little harder and tug it towards you, eyes watching and waiting for her to look up. When she finally does, you almost regret wanting to see her face because it breaks your heart. Her eyes are red and swollen. Her lips are pressed into a tight line but you can still notice how they tremble.

"Brittany," you manage to choke out, even if it's still grainy and rough.

Brittany shakes her head lightly and the sight of it kicks you in the stomach. She has already told you where she stands with you and this situation, not necessarily through words but through something else; that connection that you two share. You know that the look she gave you moments ago was her telling you that there's no other option; that she's going to do this with you. You are confident that by 'this' she meant this whole recovery but you also think it could mean something a little more profound. As if maybe when she looked at you, she wasn't just saying "I'm doing this process with you" but "I'm doing this _life _with you too".

"I'm…so sorry," you breathe out, swallowing roughly at the end of your apology.

"Don't," Brittany says, stopping you even with tears still filling her eyes.

The word sends you swimming through a pool of doubt about everything you've just confirmed for yourself. You can't decide whether it was said angrily or disappointedly or sympathetically. Suddenly it hits you that while Brittany may be committed to this, she could still be upset or mad at you for what happened. In fact, you forgot about that completely and yet it would make a lot of sense if she _was_ those things. Since you woke up, your memory has taken time to refresh itself to a better capacity and you recall enough about what happened back at the apartment. You know Quinn pulled out the baggie of coke and they all found out. You know Brittany knows why you're in this bed right now, probably even more than you quite understand so yourself. She has a lot to be angry about. They all do. They; Quinn and Tina. You still don't know where they are. They must be angry too. All of them deserve to be upset with you but that's where you need to come in and tell them. You have to tell them. Don't you?

"I can…explain," you try to say.

"No, no," Brittany interrupts, scooting closer and holding you hand tighter, "Santana, I don't care. I don't care about that right now, I just care that you're here and that you're okay."

You're taken aback by her words because you thought she was going to confront you, maybe even yell at you a little bit. You thought she'd ask you why you did it and why you were so stupid and reckless and careless about your life the way you have been. She notices the frown on your face and understands that you might need some clarification.

"I've never been more scared in my entire life," Brittany continues, voice quivering and picking up speed, "I thought in that one second, I was going to lose you forever and I can't have that, that can't happen, Santana, you can't do that, you can't do that to me, you just can't, I'm sorry but you just can't…"

"Okay come here," you say quietly once her words fumble into sobs.

You tug her closer with whatever energy you have and she takes the initiative to lean in for a hug. Her arms wrap around your neck and it catches you off guard. Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest and it stalls your reaction time somehow because you don't respond immediately. Your eyes widen a little and feel her body shake against yours, quiet cries cracking from her lips.

"Y-you c-an't," she repeats and it's the trigger that gets you to return the embrace.

"Okay," you tell her, slowly moving your arms around her half slanted body and holding her.

Brittany seems more preoccupied with you rather than what you did. You can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing. You don't want her to let it go so easily because what you've been doing with drugs isn't acceptable. You know that and you_ have known_ that all along. Sometimes, you think the reason you started in the first place was because you knew it was the wrong solution to your problem. That's how messed up you are inside. That's how you know something is out of order in the knots and ties of your thought processes, of your decision-making, of your brain. You don't know why she isn't bringing up the things that put you in this bed but you assume it's because she doesn't want you to worry about apologizing or mending for your mistakes. Maybe it's because she knows something. No, maybe it's because she _figured _something out. Maybe it's because Brittany understands now that rather than you doing something bad, it was something bad was done to you.

"I l-love you, Santana," Brittany blurts out, holding you a little tighter as the words leave her lips.

Your eyes widen fully and stare into the space ahead of you. Your arms are still wrapped around her body but you stopped moving. She wanted to say it last night at the studio but she saw the look in your eyes and decided it was best not to mention that part about her feelings yet—about both of your feelings. Brittany knows that the fear wasn't about feeling so much but about feeling so quickly. You still feel as though things are dangerous and confusing but you don't have time to waste anymore. These past eighteen hours have clearly proved that. The problem now isn't that you're scared to say those three words. You are in love with Brittany and the majority of your motivation to fight is because of her. If anything, those three words are not enough. Your problem, then, is finding words that are.

"I…love you too," you say quietly.

You feel her stiffen briefly, shocked by the reply, but then wrap her arms around you even tighter. She tucks her face into your neck and places a soft kiss against your skin there. The shivers that suddenly run all over your body are a reminder that 'I love you' really isn't enough, but the warmth that springs in your stomach shortly afterwards tells you that _for now_, 'I love you' will do.

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**A/N: Hi guys :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I feel so heavy from writing all the angst. On the bright side, things seem to be looking up from here. Fingers crossed right? :) Just to clarify, ****the second to last and last section have a bit of time in between them so assume Brittany talks to an unconscious Santana, a little while passes where she keeps waiting, and then Santana wakes up. ALSO, the flashback/dream was my Christmas present to you guys...I mean, all up until it turned into a nightmare :/ lol **

_******Answered questions from the PREVIOUS CHAPTER (10):**_

**- CdnGirl01: I am really anxious to see how she takes the news when she wakes up. Will it finally get her to open up about what happened and led to this whole situation?** _Well, as you have just read, Santana does want Brittany to know now about what really happened so we can expect the truth to surface soon. _

_-_** Marco-found-Polo: Where are Santana's parents in all of this? **_Santana's mother will be appearing soon._

**Thank you all for your support with this story and for sticking with it! I'm so honored to have readers like you! :) Let me know your thoughts! xx**

**Disclaimer: The title of this chapter is from the song Open Your Eyes by Andrew Belle.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Trigger warning. I know many of you have your assumptions about what happened to Santana and I think they're pretty much all accurate and are just waiting for them to be confirmed in the story. For the sake of any of my readers and for what I see as a standard procedure, I'm flagging this chapter and all chapters from now on as triggers for sexual abuse/rape. This chapter is not particularly graphic but it may be just as troubling. Also, if at the end of this chapter, you feel you can't continue, I fully understand and take absolutely no offense to it. Nobody is forcing you to read this, but I do hope that you stay if you are one of those on the fence about this fic. I promise you, there will be a happy ending. Also, if at the end of this chapter, you feel you need to talk to someone, you can always talk to me. I'm available on here, you can PM me anytime or you can message me on Tumblr (which you will find in my description here on FF). My Twitter is also an option which you can find through my Tumblr. Anyways, I will let you read now. Sorry for this ridiculously long wait. I promise I'll try to be better.**

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**Chapter 12: Worn Me Down (To My Knees)**

There is something about the skin on the back of her hand that your fingertips cherish. You could trace patterns there all day. That's what you've been doing for the past thirty minutes since you woke up in the hospital. You've lost count of how many sets of drawings you've made on her skin but it doesn't matter because they all mean nothing and everything. There hasn't been much of a conversation between the two of you yet, mainly because the last words you exchanged were 'I love you'. She stayed in your arms for a while after that and you were happy to comfort her, but it still confuses you that she hasn't asked you about the drugs yet. If anything, you thought it would be the first thing she would want explained; the first thing anyone would want to know.

That reminds you of Quinn and Tina. Brittany hasn't mentioned them yet either and it hasn't stopped bothering you since you realized they weren't in the room. To think that maybe they left scares you because you never really wanted to push them away. You never wanted to push anyone away but it was the most familiar tactic in your book. You grew up doing that; isolating yourself. High school for you was shutting people out, at least up until senior year. After that, you somehow managed to set yourself straight and open up and you were good for the time that it lasted but as soon as the next horrible thing slammed into your life, you went straight back. Snapped like a rubber band.

Waking up in the hospital in your condition was enough to convince yourself to start trying again. There was that, and then there is Brittany. She's the other reason you know you can't go on like this. When you look into her eyes, you see what has been blurred for a long time. You see all the things that you used to be and how important it is that you find yourself again. Nobody can really make you believe in yourself as much as Brittany can. Maybe it's because of that 'soul mate' deal you share with her. Okay so you don't believe in all the mushy gushy love at first sight crap but meeting Brittany all those years ago made you believe in fate. How else can you explain how two completely different personalities manage to be so perfectly compatible? How else do you explain the manner in which you can so easily understand each other, and even more so without words? As strange as it sounds, you feel as if the two of you were something arranged by a force that exists above either of your control. She does for you things that nobody else can do: understand you, guide you, inspire you and above all, _love_ you. You know that myth about two people connected by an invisible string and no matter how far apart, they'll always be linked? Brittany is the one on the other end of that invisible string and breaking that bond is virtually impossible. They say attachments like those are indestructible.

"Brittany," you whisper in the middle of tracing pattern on her hand.

She peers up at you with a small frown. Brittany sits in the chair beside your bed with her hand stretched out onto your lap as you hold it and keep it close.

"I need…to tell you something," you struggle, finding that you probably should have prepared something in your head before coming out and saying this.

"Yeah," she breathes out, nodding softly.

"But I…I can't," you contradict, shutting your eyes temporarily, "I mean…I-I've never…I don't know how."

"Okay," Brittany answers smoothly, her voice successfully keeping you as calm as someone in your position can be right now, "Take your time. It's okay to be scared."

You blow out a breath to steady yourself before opening your eyes again to meet her, "The drugs…it isn't what you think."

She frowns lightly, "How long has it been, Santana?"

You stare at her, pressing your lips together tightly. She still doesn't look angry about any of this and while that's one of the things that drive you crazy right now, you just decide to leave it alone. She knows what she feels and she reacts the way she believes is appropriate. Brittany has always been sure about what her body tells her to feel so you don't question her when it comes to these things.

"Since August…something…" you mutter quietly before hearing it and realizing how horrible it sounds, "Fuck."

Your head drops and you lift a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose. Immediately, you let out a small shriek and squeeze your eyes shut, teeth piercing through your bottom lip.

"Hey, hey," Brittany reacts, suddenly shifting onto the bed beside you, "What did you do?"

"Shit I-I don't know," you groan, "It hurts there."

"Here, let me see," she orders.

She moves your hand away from your face and takes your chin in her fingertips, tilting your head up so she can have a better look. When you finally open your eyes, you watch the way she studies your nose. Her eyes squint and her lips purse and it all catches you off guard, finding yourself slowly drifting into the world where it's just you and her. She takes care of you so well that you swear that it is job only she is meant to do. The best and worst part is that she doesn't even have to. There's no document or legal anything saying that she has to be here with you. There's no agreement that either of you have discussed regarding where your relationship stands. Brittany isn't obligated to sit here next to you but she does anyway and you know that even in the worst of situations, she always will. Sometimes, you just don't think there is anything you could possibly do for her in return.

"I love you," you confess spontaneously, but under your breath and barely audible.

Brittany slows her movements and shifts her eyes to look into yours. Her head tilts to the side and her body sinks lightly in her seat.

"I know it's not…what you want to hear," you blurt out, "But…it's…it's the best thing I've got right now, Brittany and I need…I need you to know that I love you and…I need you to stay."

She scoots closer to you and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your skin gently in the process. The back of her fingertips brush against your cheek so serenely that it'd be enough to put you to sleep if you were only less willing to stay awake.

"I'm not going anywhere, Santana," she confirms, a voice so confident and reassuring, "I don't…understand…or…or know what's going on but I know _you _and that's good enough."

Something stings behind your eyes but you try to ignore it, hoping it won't turn into tears or anything tangible that she could somehow see. You nod several times so she knows you understand her, but you still fear that she will leave you. If not today or tomorrow then someday. She keeps telling you not to think about that but isn't it only human to be terrified of losing the one thing that is keeping you together?

"I love you," she says quietly, pulling you in for a kiss on the forehead and then wrapping you into a hug, "And I'm scared too."

Your eyes open slowly, frowning at her confession. It's the first time Brittany has ever admitted something like this to you. It frightens you, enough to make you pull away and meet her face to face again.

Brittany shrugs when she sees you, "…of a lot of things actually."

You peer up at her curiously but fearfully as your desire splits into conflicting temptations, a part of you wanting to know what scares her and another part never wanting to know. Before you can actually tell her what happened to you, it would make you feel little better if she did confess something too. Like an exchange; her confession for your confession. But that's not really how you're looking at it. In fact, the only reason you do want her to keep going isn't because you want something from her but because it may make the idea of 'confessing' sound a little less intimidating.

"I have nightmares, sometimes, about you disappearing," she explains, and you swallow hardly at her introduction, "And I wake up sweating and panting and you aren't in bed next to me to set it all straight so for the first few minutes I'm awake afterwards, I believe you're actually gone. Back in Lima, those were the only dreams I had."

The pressure around your heart intensifies and your chest swells from the wounds that her words leave inside you. Brittany's confession sheds light on something you didn't spend enough time thinking about to figure it out yourself. Of course you knew she had fears but you weren't aware of how destructive they were to her. Or even if at some point you did understand, it only now hurts because she has finally said it out loud to you. She has made them into flesh so you can see. You realize that Brittany's pain is triggered by the pain you cause for yourself. She admires you in the most beautiful way and when you don't recognize your worth, it hurts her.

"Britt…" you breathe out sadly.

"But listen, tonight is not about what I'm scared of, okay?" she interrupts, shifting the focus back to you, "I want you to talk to me, Santana, so we can work through this."

She lifts a hand and places it on your cheek to make sure you understand. Even though you're much better off now after she's comforted you, you're still anxious about revealing the truth. She can see it too as you gaze at her through timid eyes.

"Or you know, if not that," she follows, "At least we can be scared together."

As you exhale, the corners of your lips curve up in the slightest way. She sends you a pressed smile and strokes the skin along your jaw with her thumb. It's a moment you haven't really been able to share with her in a long time, probably not since high school. Right now it feels like you might actually do this, like you _can_ actually do this.

"Santana?!" someone says by the door and your head snaps to see who it is.

Quinn and Tina rush in and your heart suddenly thuds harder against your chest. Tina comes to the empty side of your bed and Quinn joins her once she throws her coat onto the couch.

"Santana!" another person says in a high pitch and you turn to the doorway again to find Rachel, Puck and Sam shuffling into the room.

"Oh my gosh, you're awake," Tina says happily, a relieved smile gracing her face.

"Thank god," Quinn breathes out and smiles weakly at you.

Rachel claps her hands together a few times before pressing them to her chest, "We were so worried about you."

"Whoah," you breathe out nervously, eyes darting to the members of the crowd that just poured in.

You share a quick second with each of them, feeling your heart start to race, and then end up back at Brittany. She smiles at you before catching something behind your head. You watch her face fall worried and look back at you. The monitor beeps faster than it did before and you tear your eyes away to glance at it too. It brings attention to the sudden tightness in your chest as you return to face ahead. The blood rushes to your brain a little faster than usual and soon enough, the lightheadedness strikes you.

"Hey, are you okay?" Brittany asks, leaning in to speak quietly.

"Yeah," you answer nervously, but it sounds strangled, "I'm, uh…"

"Sorry," Tina says worriedly, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder, "I guess we shouldn't have all barged in at once."

You glance up at her and press your lips into a kind but faint smile, "It's fine…I'm just…a little overwhelmed, I think."

Brittany takes your hand and holds it with both of hers tightly, bringing it against her own chest. You spend a few seconds admiring her gesture and the warmth it brings to your body before returning to the crowd. With Brittany's touch, you feel how your muscles loosen and your chest expands to make it easier to breathe again. You won't ever get tired of the way she makes you feel.

"How are you holding up?" Quinn asks, eyes watching you carefully.

You meet her direct stare and swallow hardly, knowing that Quinn probably has more than a thousand things running through her mind about you right now. What she thinks is entirely important to you and that's not something you can say about a lot of people. Quinn is your best friend. Just like Brittany can do things for you that no one else can, Quinn has some things that set her apart too. She understands your hot-headedness and your attitude and your mechanisms of isolation better than anyone because she's just like you in that sense. She may not understand your feelings as well as Brittany does but she understands the way you choose to express them—or _not _express them, actually.

"Alright," you finally answer with a casual shrug.

A thought sparks in your mind and suddenly you wonder whether they all know about you and why you're here. In front of you stands Rachel, Puck and Sam who you haven't so much said a single word to about your problems. Puck, maybe a little, but nothing solid or concrete for him to work with unlike what you've given Brittany, Quinn and Tina. You don't like the idea of sitting here amongst all them without knowing whether or not they're all shaming you inside their heads or still clueless about the entire thing. It bothers you to be so ignorant about it. On top of that, you only just reunited with Sam last night and you haven't seen Rachel in weeks. Their presence here is nothing short of confusing.

"What are you guys doing here?" you wonder, shifting your attention to the new acquaintances.

"Got a call saying you were in the hospital," Puck answers, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Why wouldn't we be here?"

You notice something strange about his composure. He's wearing his best poker face, clenching his jaw every five seconds. It makes you nervous because he looks angry. No, he looks worse than that—disappointed—and that is enough to tell you that he knows the truth. Soon enough, though, you realize that he's the only one of the three. Rachel is too worried and relieved at the same time to even consider an alternate 'darker' reality and Sam, well, you get the impression that Sam seems to know something is wrong but has no leads. You give props to Brittany on that one because they live together and it wouldn't surprise you to find out that she talks about you.

Just as you begin to peel your eyes away, something clicks and you pause. You frown whilst the idea develops and slowly turn back to Sam. Your eyes linger on him because you suddenly remember that he was the first thing that came to mind when you woke up here. After a while, he notices your confused glare and parts his lips.

"Oh, um…Brittany called me," Sam says nervously to give his version of an answer to your previous question.

What happened between talking to Sam on the street and waking up in the hospital is still all very blurry. There isn't much you can reference because the night comes to you in a hazy memory, like a windshield constantly covered in fog no matter how fast the wipers are. He probably knows just as much as you do about what happened but you still wonder whether you said or mentioned anything to him that about where you were going exactly.

"Thanks…guys," you say to all of them, nodding softly, "…for coming…I…uh…it's nice of you."

Rachel frowns, "Of course we came. You're one of our best friends, Santana."

Tina smiles sweetly and rubs your back gently, "It's true, San. No matter what, we love you."

You press your lips together and offer a tight smile, the best you can do for now. You really do mean it when say you're glad they are here. If there's one thing you loved about high school, it was the glee club. It wasn't because you could sing and dance and sometimes even act, but because it was the place where you finally understood what it meant to have a family. These people are your family. You hate that you somehow forgot about that completely over the past months.

As you drop your head to look at your fingers, you watch Brittany's thumb trace a few patterns on the back of your hand. You glance up at her and find that her smile warms your heart. You send her a timid smile in return before facing the rest again.

"Um…I really…appreciate that you're all here," you murmur, eyes cautiously surveying the room.

Silence takes over for now as they all sort of settle back into the room. Tina sits down on the space next to you and Quinn occupies a seat at the end of the mattress. The rest shuffle around, all except Puck who still stands firmly at the foot of your bed. You don't look him directly in the eye because he frightens you a little bit now. You know he knows why you're in here and he must be angry about it, especially since he works at the same place as you. When Puck clears his throat, your stomach shifts uncomfortably.

"Well…um…I'm really glad you're alright," he says coldly, before turning to Rachel, "I'm just going to cancel our reservations tonight…'cause…you know…"

"What?" you say after eavesdropping.

"Oh, uh, well we had plans tonight," Puck explains, "but…we aren't going to go since—"

"Go," you say confidently.

"What?" Rachel says, turning to you, "No, no really, we can always reschedule. We're here for you."

You offer a fake smile, but a pretty good one at that, and insist, "Really, it's fine. I'll still be here tomorrow."

She sighs and tilts her head to the side, "No…are you sure? No, I can't. We can't."

"Rachel," you say firmly, "Don't make me get out of this bed and drag your sorry little ass there."

Quinn snorts at your comment, concealing a small chuckle. Tina joins in too moments later.

"Well," Rachel says, rolling her eyes at you, "I see you haven't changed."

The words make you shudder internally. You think Brittany may have felt that reaction in you somehow because the muscles in your hand stiffened. Sometimes, you wish they all just knew about you and what happened. You wonder who you would be right now if you had told the truth and hadn't just shoved it further down into the darkness. That question seems to pop up so often in our lives; who _would _you be? If you hadn't done this, who would you be? If you had done that, who would you be? The thing is; that's a constant about life. That question will always exist because, essentially, we always _could have_ and _would have_ been.

"Yeah well," you mutter before releasing a breath and shrugging as if nothing had bothered you, "Once a bitch, always a bitch."

Chuckles fill the room but you almost feel worse than you did before. It isn't Rachel's fault. She just happened to choose words that remind you of everything that makes you unhappy now. You turn to Brittany and notice she's the only one without a smile on her face. Her lips are pressed together in a soft line, her eyes hooded to hide how she really feels at the moment. Seeing her makes you want to take it back, wish that you had never said it. Brittany knows better than to think you actually wanted to say that. Sure, in high school, it was practically your catch phrase and you loved whipping it out for people, but high school ended two and half years ago and she knows that. She knows you don't say that anymore, and she probably even knows that you haven't said that kind of thing in a long time.

When she peers up at you, she tries to give you a smile but each curve makes your stomach twist. You frown sadly and readjust your hand to a better angle so that you can hold her hand tightly and comfortably. You see that the gesture makes her smile a little more genuinely, but the sadness remains in her eyes and you can't bear it anymore. You have to look away, distract yourself for a while.

"So, uh," you say, turning back to Puck and Rachel, "What time do you guys…have to be there?"

"Um, well," Rachel stammers nervously.

"At 8 so, in about an hour, actually," Puck fills in.

You glance over at the clock in the room and notice that it's almost 7pm.

"You better get going then," you tell them, "I mean, unless you plan to look like…that."

You eye their casual outfits judgingly and raise your eyebrows at them. Puck rolls his eyes but Rachel looks down at her shorts and t-shirt with a frown.

"Wha—hey," Rachel exclaims.

"Alright, come on drama queen," Puck groans, taking her by the arm and leading them out, "We'll be back tomorrow."

You nod and let go of a tense breath, but a little too soon because Puck stops just before the door.

"Take care, Lopez," he says and pauses.

The gaze between you is heavy because he knows about the coke and he also knows that you know he knows. Eventually, he nods and backs out of the room until he disappears into the hallway with Rachel.

"Well," Quinn says, sighing and clapping her hands onto her lap, "Tina and I were just talking about heading to the apartment and freshening up but, since you woke up and the lovebirds left…this means we can…talk…right?"

Someone clears their throat from the corner of the room and you snap towards that direction.

"I was thinking I might head out too, considering…well," Sam explains cautiously, "I don't really know if you need me here and you girls obviously have a lot to discuss."

You don't attempt to stop him from leaving. You're not going to force anyone to stay here and this must already be uncomfortable for Sam since you had only just reunited with him yesterday. Instead, you simply nod politely and give him your silent permission to leave. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts towards the door, stopping by Brittany on his way. He gives her a kiss on her forehead which, though you hate admitting this, makes you jealous. It makes you wonder how she feels about you. If you're…above Sam or on the same level or…lower. Sometimes, you tell yourself you're crazy for thinking that but then again, you don't really trust your judgment right now. Or ever, really.

"Call me," he tells Brittany before sending smiles to Quinn and Tina as he exits the room.

The three of them are left. The three you began with, the three you ended up with. Three. It feels like too much all of a sudden, despite the fact that there were six just moments ago. Three feels like an exceeded amount, a cup overflowed. It must feel like too much now because it's the only three that know the most. What are you supposed to do? You can't hide anymore but you're not ready for three. Two is even scary still. One might work. If you're going to do this, it'll have to be one.

"I know you want answers," you say suddenly, and watch all their eyes focus on you, "I know you're all…frustrated."

Tina strokes your shoulder gently, "No, San, don't think that. We're not frustrated or angry at you; we're just…really worried."

"We just want to know what's going on," Quinn explains exhaustedly, in a tone that slightly contradicts what Tina just said.

"We love you," Brittany says quietly, bringing your hand up to her lips and kissing the back of it lightly.

Their comments offer comfort, enough to get you feeling as though you might actually want to tell them. For the first time, you feel that urge to talk about it for the sake of freeing yourself. Well, it's the first time for Quinn and Tina at least because, truthfully, you've wanted to tell Brittany since the moment she walked back into your life. You've wanted her help all this time, despite the fact that you tried so hard to turn it down in the beginning. Now, however, something begs for the other two and you want to make that step forward. You need to, but three is too much. That keeps repeating in your head: three is too much. You can't ignore it.

You glance back and forth between them all with a sting in your eyes. They look at you with so much love and worry, and a little bit of disappointment which you understand completely, that it becomes overwhelming to be in the presence of these three girls all at once. Earlier, the company of Sam, Puck and Rachel was enough to drown out the smaller tensions between you, Quinn, Tina and Brittany and replace it with distractions. However now that they are gone, the pressure is back and back too soon.

Without saying anything, you turn to Brittany and meet her gaze. She stares into you softly but passionately, as if with her eyes she promises you care and safety. Gosh, you love her. Sometimes, you forget that you even spent two years apart, but then, soon enough, you always remember. It never skips your mind, all because of what happened during those two years. That reality is what motivates you to make this decision right now—the thing that will allow you to start freeing yourself from the burden of always remembering. Of course, you won't ever forget, but maybe, _maybe_ after this, you won't always have to remember it in every thought that crosses your mind. That's good enough for you.

You nod a few times, and very slowly too. She studies your gesture with thought and care, deeply analyzing what you're trying to tell her. It takes a while, but you know she will get it eventually. Brittany always gets you; sometimes some messages just take longer to decode. You wait a few more seconds and then she squeezes your hand as she breathes in and nods back.

"Guys," you say softly, and then tear away from Brittany's gaze to face Quinn and Tina, "I…um…I need…would you mind if Brittany and I had a moment alone…"

They share a look and you can see the exhaustion they feel between understanding and respecting your wishes and being tired of getting sent away with nothing. You don't blame them. Quinn and Tina have been waiting a long time to know what is wrong with you and this is just another postponement. You _will _tell them. You have decided that, but you need Brittany to know first.

"Sure, Santana," Quinn says warily as she slowly stands up.

"Do you need anything?" Tina asks with a smile.

You shake your head politely and watch as they start towards the door. You know they're both frustrated with you, although Tina does a better job of hiding it than Quinn. You feel bad because you know that they just want you to trust them. The thing is, you do, but this isn't about trust. They don't understand that trust is not the problem here. If telling them was a matter of trust then you would have told them a long time ago. This is about you and what you are afraid to do. For once, this isn't really about trust.

"Quinn…" you call out, "Tina."

Quinn and Tina turn around just before reaching the hallway and pause, waiting for you to continue. You glance over at Brittany and swallow hardly, frowning. Your eyes are fearful because you're about to say something you have never said to them before, and something they have wanted to hear for so long. You pick at your fingernails and close your eyes, each breath flowing in and out nervously.

"There_ is_ something," you confess, and peel open to look at them again.

Quinn squints and shifts her weight to one side, studying you sharply. Tina frowns too, confused about what you're trying to say. You wish they could understand you as well as Brittany does because that way you wouldn't have to repeat it again. The unfortunate thing about your relationship with Quinn and Tina is that you're rarely naturally on the same page. You always have to work a little harder to fit with each other.

"You always thought there was something wrong…" you explain, "I'm saying…that you're right."

You watch the realization spread over both their faces and it relieves some of the guilt you feel for not opening up to them at all. Tina smiles warmly at you because she's proud. Quinn, on the other hand, keeps studying you carefully. She really wants you to talk to her about it. You really do too, but you're sticking to what you decided: Brittany first because Brittany is what you know. You know her by heart, you know her by soul. You know her and that comforts you more than the idea of telling Quinn or Tina right now.

"We'll be outside," Quinn finally says, nodding with a small but kind smile.

Once they duck out and turn down the hallway, you let go of a heavy breath. Your palm feels sweaty so you look down at it and remember that you're still holding Brittany's hand tightly. You gently stroke the skin on her hand lightly with your free fingertips. Brittany breathes in deeply at the touch and that reaction warms your heart. The room stays silent for a while longer because there's no rush. Brittany makes sure you don't feel like you _need _to do this, but that that you want to. She's thoughtful like that and you love her for it, among many other things. Brittany has patience too, and that is something you have never really had at all. Not only does she have it, but she has mastered the act of patience too—waiting, hoping, and believing. If you were in her position, you'd drive yourself up the wall. You'd lose your mind, assuming you haven't already lost it.

"What are you thinking, babe?" she asks you.

"The door," you answer strangely.

"Huh?"

"Could you…close it?" you ask, looking up and at the door of your room.

"Oh," she realizes and shifts in her seat, "Of course…I mean I think so."

Brittany stands up and does what you asked her to do. She walks to the door and closes it quietly, waiting for the click to sound. Before she makes her way back, she pauses and points to the screen window that looks out into the hallway of the hospital.

"You want those shut too?" she asks.

"Yeah," you answer, nodding timidly.

She walks over and twists the handle so the blinds close and leave the two of you separated from the rest of the outside world. You aren't sure whether or not you're breaking a standard protocol of the hospital by closing the door and blinds but at this point, you really don't care. You exhale and slowly guide yourself back against the pillow. She returns to her seat and rests her arms on the bed, looking at you wide-eyed and lovingly.

"Do they know?" you wonder, thinking about how everyone was in the room earlier.

Brittany perks up and glances over her shoulder at the door, probably thinking about the people who shuffled in and out within the past thirty minutes. She spends a moment there, probably contemplating what version of an answer she's going to give. Brittany eventually sighs and returns to you.

"Puck knows," she admits, "I don't know if he told Rachel, but if he didn't, then that's it. Sam doesn't know."

"You didn't tell him?" you ask, slightly surprised even though you kind of know that Brittany isn't the type to go around blurting private details about people.

She stares at you briefly before answering, "No…of course not."

You nod, "So you don't talk to Sam about me?"

Brittany smiles sweetly, "Of course I do, Santana. I talk about you all the time. I just don't…talk about certain things."

Something spreads in your chest, like the warm glow from a campfire.

"What do you…talk about?" you ask curiously, hoping to ease into a conversation before you have to do something that will change everything.

Brittany pauses momentarily, peering up at you in thought.

"Your eyes," she confesses, blinking slowly.

You frown, "My…eyes?"

"Your eyes," Brittany repeats, and nods to you, "Those ones."

"Why do you talk about my eyes?" you ask.

She shrugs casually, "They're my favorite."

You smile shyly, "What makes them any better than the rest of me?"

Brittany pauses again and waits a little. She takes in a few deep breaths and lets them out respectively before she's ready.

"They tell me what your lips can't," she explains.

Of course. You should have known. It's true and you can justify that because it works the same the other way around. Brittany's eyes tell you all of what her lips fail to. Some people communicate best through speech, some through gestures. You and Brittany count on the eyes. Stories and truths and emotions all fuse together there, as if squished and compacted to fit in the universe that exists between your gazes.

"I feel the same way about yours," you confess, cheeks warming.

Brittany's smile burns brighter but you start to feel yourself close off again. It has become an instinct now. Whenever your body feels like it is enjoying itself too much, a warning sets off. Your face falls a little and you drop your eyes to look at your fingers.

"Hey," she coos softly, "Don't do that."

You turn to her, "Do what?"

"That," she restates, "Hide."

Denial is just such an easy card to play, "I'm not…"

"What has you so scared, San?" she asks, "So…afraid to breathe."

You swallow hardly and take a deep breath. She studies you carefully, eyes burning into yours with a desire to know the truth. The closer you get to actually saying it, the more reluctant you become. Moments ago, when they were all still here, you felt like you could do this but as you inch closer and closer to the truth, your fear heightens. The room feels smaller, shrinking, and like the air keeps slipping between the cracks in the walls and windows.

"Do you like…hiding?" Brittany asks, "Is this…a choice, Santana?"

You close your eyes and blow out a breath as steadily as you can. Even with effort, it comes out quivery and unbalanced. You probably don't need to say anything to confirm your answer but you do anyway.

"No," you murmur.

Brittany sighs and reaches for your hand, sandwiching it tightly between both of hers, "Talk to me."

You turn and face her again, feeling your heart speed up in your chest, "I want to."

"Then what's the matter?" she wonders.

"I can't just say what happened," you blurt out quickly and loudly, "I can't…just say what happened to me, Brittany."

Another sting ignites behind your eyes but this time you are sure that it's from tears. You feel them flood your eyes so you lower your head to hide them, but Brittany knows anyway. Your heart races in your chest and your stomach twists in all kinds of ways. You admitted it now; that something happened to you.

"I…" you struggle, "It's not…something I can just _say._"

"Okay," Brittany responds, "But…I just need you to know that you have so much support, San. From Quinn, from Tina, from Puck. From me."

"I know," you whisper, "I know that."

"And we all know you and who you are and we just want you to be okay, that's all we want," she continues, "And we'll do whatever it takes to help you, we'll…figure out what we have to do."

She continues lecturing you about how much support you have and how much they all care for you but the strange movement inside your body catches your attention instead. Something feels as if it is climbing up from your stomach, up your throat, and aiming for an escape through your lips. Your breaths quicken, but not in a matter of panic. Instead, it feels more like a build up to something monumental, like the way breaths quicken right before a sprinter hears the gun shot to start his race.

"I don't want you to worry about not having anybody, because I know that's something you've always been scared of," Brittany explains, her voice coming back into your conscious.

She goes on for a little longer until that thing inside you escapes, just like you expected it would.

"I just want you to be—"

"I didn't know him," you interject, spontaneously and out of context.

Your voice is quivery but surprisingly calm, though your eyes are completely blurred with tears. Your abrupt statement cuts her off immediately and silence takes over your conversation. Your eyes stay hidden for the meantime, but the tension grows wary soon enough and causes you to eventually lift up to see her reaction. Her gaze burns into you, making all the blood rush in and around your body and all the heartbeats travel faster along their little streams. Your voice sits at the bottom of your throat, strangled but firm. Your words rest on your tongue, bitter but eager. This very moment is what you've feared so intensely for months now but you're not panicking. Not yet.

"What?" she breathes out.

Your eyes drop again to play with your fingers. When a tear splatters onto the back of your hand, you sniff and close your eyes. The darkness is soothing, at least for the first few seconds you spend in it. Sometimes eliminating vision and light helps you distance yourself from the world, or from the demons that live in it, but it doesn't last. You're lucky enough to get fifteen seconds of peace until you begin to miss something. Something that the darkness lacks but the real world has.

"Santana?" she whispers, sucking you back into the conversation.

As you listen to her words fall away and her voice grow fainter, you decide to confront her again. You immediately regret that decision because what you see now breaks your heart. It breaks your heart but it all seems so distant, like being a ghost who feels only with the memory of pain, lacking the true experience. Her lips are parted unwillingly, in fear perhaps. They tremble, though, very clearly for you to see.

"I saw him around…" you continue, but very softly because your voice could crack any second now, "…a few times that week maybe…but…I didn't…know his name or anything."

Your throat swells with anxiety from remembering it all again, but you have a small ounce of strength somewhere that keeps you going. Even though your tongue burns in the bitter taste of talking about the memory and even though your stomach churns in disgust, you keep going. You have to. Your whole body throbs with a poisonous addiction but there's a glimpse of hope somewhere ahead of you that has you thinking you might finally be facing the right direction.

"What are you…" Brittany asks slowly, still puzzled but with a growing hint that soon scares her, "Wait…wait."

"I didn't know he was…following me," you reveal, feeling the space inside your throat shrink.

Your strength collapses, but something else happens too. Even though it feels like things are crumbling inside of you, it feels lighter. Not that much lighter at all, but lighter nonetheless. The truth is, and you are realizing this is more and more now, that just saying it out loud was the first step all along. You've been rotting in the wounded period, the damaged stage, of this process for months because you never once made that memory into flesh after it happened. It remained caged because you thought that was the only way you'd be protected, but everything you did to push it away was a solid waste of your time. Time that you now realize you don't even have.

Brittany, on the other hand, keeps looking worse and worse as you go on. It's like you're climbing up and she's falling down. You don't know what to do about it. She's almost frozen, trembling in a cold, undesirable storm. Her breaths are like quiet gushes of air. They sound faint and muffled and uneven and desperate, all at the same time.

"I didn't…realize what happened until…he was…" you pause, and emphasize the last part bitterly, "…gone."

She frowns for several seconds more until you watch it hit her, and it hits like a speeding car. You gave her enough—something you couldn't have foreseen, a stranger, _him. _She pieces it together and a breath falls out of her mouth, falls, like she had no control of it, or like she simply let it go. Next she swallows, something, maybe a thick lump lodged in her throat, scraping her insides. Her brow frowns, mixing fear, worry and shock in the most excruciating way. She almost embodies the concept of broken.

"I tried…" you whimper through a hoarse and crackly whisper, "I tried to…tell…someone…"

Her eyes suddenly break away from yours and stare at something else. They remain on your body somewhere but with the way she frowns, you begin to think she's not really "looking" anywhere but merely taking a moment to calculate her thoughts. Soon, you feel her hands stop holding yours. She releases her muscles and _stops _holding your hand. You wait for the splitting pain in your chest to come. It does.

"Brittany," you wince, "I didn't…know what or…or…how…"

You stare at her helplessly, waiting for any kind of response. She sits silently, but the cold and fearful air tells you that it she isn't silent by choice. In fact, if you listen closely, you can swear she is screaming. You keep searching desperately into her grey eyes because you need her to react in some way,_ any _way.

"Say something…" you beg, "P-Please…B."

She finally blinks and peers up at you horrifically. She shakes her head in disbelief, as if she still cannot grasp the reality of what happened to you, or refuses to grasp it.

"I tried…to…block it out," you admit, with tears flooding your eyes and a throat almost entirely closed up.

Brittany breathes out heavily and pushes her face into her hands, elbows propped up on her thighs as she bends forward. You watch her carefully, feeling some of those tears escape and slide down your cheek. A few seconds pass and Brittany emerges again with red eyes and a sniffle.

"When?" she finally chokes out.

You didn't even realize she was crying. Her covered mouth must have blocked any quiet sound of a sob or cry. You didn't even see her shoulders shake, yet you look at her now and see how the tears drip from her eyelashes like a loose tap. Her nose is pink and stuffy, lips a little swollen.

"Britt…" you say solemnly, flinching from the ache in your chest.

"Santana, please answer me," she says, and she tries to be firm but her voice cracks mid sentence into a gravelly texture.

Her words hit you harshly, and you take a deep breath. The air travels down your throat unsteadily, like the path is a bumpy, treacherous path.

"Spring Break," you confess, temporarily chewing on the inside of your cheek, "…It's been…months now."

"Oh god," she breathes out nauseously as she bends over again and presses the palms of her hands into her eyes. She whispers again, "Spring Break."

It's the first time Brittany has been this unpredictable. You don't know what she's going to do next, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't worried about her standing up and leaving the room. You don't know why she would even think about doing that but the thought stays in your head like a possibility. She stopped holding your hand, she stopped looking at you. She feels distant and finally something starts to make you panic. The only reason you've made it to this stage is because of Brittany. She can't…leave you on your own now. You need her, that's the only thing that you're sure of.

Thoughts of the same negative nature continue to build up in your head, speeding up the chaos inside you. Your chest tightens and you hear the monitor faintly project a faster heart rate.

"I didn't know what to do…" you admit softly, tears still falling, "I felt…gone. I was gone."

She continues to shake her head and it starts to discomfort you.

"That's why you…" she starts, but she sucks in a breath and forgets to finish her sentence.

You understand enough what she meant to say and attempt to respond, "It…broke everything."

She shoves her face into her hands and spends a few seconds there before emerging once again. She sniffs and wipes her eyes roughly, and at the same time, she moves onto the bed beside you. Her proximity makes your heart beat too fast in your chest. Your throat swells and you feel a few new tears rush down your face. Brittany takes your hand in between both of hers again and holds them firmly. Her eyes are glued to your joined hands as she places them on her lap. She refuses to look at you for now because she tucked her face away and closed her eyes. You glance back and forth several times between your hands and her hidden face. Give or take a few seconds, and she falls apart again.

"Brittany?" you ask softly, worriedly too.

Brittany sniffs and blows out a breath, finally beginning to lift her head up towards you. She looks completely torn. Her eyes are the color of blood, dark red blood. Her cheeks are blotchy. Her face is puffy. Her nose is pink. You can barely see her eyes with how swollen they have become. You lean forward from the bed and towards her.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes with an exhale.

You frown deeply, chest aching, "Britt..."

She blows out another breath, trying to calm herself but it doesn't work. The image of her splits your heart in two. You wince at the sharpness inside your chest and the tightness in your stomach. All that confusion about why she wasn't saying anything before melts away because you understand now. Brittany doesn't _know _what to do or say. She thought she would have the words and the strength to deal with whatever secret you had but that's the thing, and you knew this all along; she didn't know just how _bad _your secret was. Nobody does.

"Stop," you whisper as you wiggle your hand free from her grip and reach up to hold the side of her face.

She leans into your hand and reaches her own hand up to grip your wrist. She sniffs and breathes in and out heavily.

"Don't…don't cry," you plead timidly, "I'm…okay."

You aren't quite sure why you said it. If there is one thing that you have _never ever _known, and one thing that has scared you immensely, it is whether or not you are okay. Maybe you said it because you need Brittany to stop crying. People say things like that when they're trying to comfort others right? This idea of 'okay' seems nice, seems hopeful. Maybe you wanted to give that to her, but it probably doesn't work so much when you never had it to begin with.

"No," she says, her voice becoming grainy, "No you're not."

You stare at her miserably, brushing her tears away with your thumb. You won't correct her. She's right.

"And I should've…" she says between gasps of air, "…I should have been with…"

"But you weren't, Britt…" you explain with sadness in your tone, letting your hand fall away from her face and back to your lap, "You couldn't have…nobody could have."

She shuts her eyes and sinks. Nobody knows how you really feel about what happened to you. You're not even sure if you know it so clearly either. You never let yourself think about it long enough for it to fully develop. You never thought about it long enough to recognize its entirety. This part of how you feel has remained locked and barricaded in a dark place deep inside you, but you have found it now.

"I…I wasn't…careful," you tell her as your lips begin tremble, "I should have been…more…careful."

She shakes her head and peers up at you again with a confused frown, "What?"

You stare blankly into space, and it's empty. That's what you feel right now. Empty again. Empty like that night. Empty like all the nights after that. Is this what you get for confessing your truth? Unwanted visitors of the past, ghosts.

"I…I made it easy," you confess, feeling your tongue swell with disgust, "I went off on my own…and…"

"Stop it, sto—don't…" she interrupts firmly, "Is that what you think, Santana? That this was your fault?"

To be honest, you didn't really know that was how you felt until now. Tears sting in your eyes and blur your vision again. They gather at the bottom of your eyelid and wait patiently for you to set them free. You finally turn slowly and meet Brittany again. She stopped crying, but it seems you will start soon. The outline of her face is unclear because your eyes are three quarters full of tears.

"I don't…know," you whisper hoarsely.

It can feel like that sometimes. When terrible things happen to us, we wonder what is was that we did wrong. We wonder what it was that we did to deserve such misfortune. Sometimes we encounter a reason—a memory of a time when we said this or did that to someone, to something, and caused pain for another. Sometimes we find many reasons, and we just don't know which one to pick to be our explanation. But many times, too often, we forget to remember that it might not be any of them at all. We forget to remember that bad things happen and most of the time just because they do, not because they _have _to, not because of a wrongdoing. We forget to remember that lives are lost for no reason and people are hurt simply because they are people.

You forget all the time, because there is so much about yourself that you can blame. If you weren't who you are, maybe you could realize a little sooner that this wasn't your fault. Maybe you'd understand it better, but you don't. You are not the nicest person and you've done horrible things in the past. You've made lives miserable; it was your specialty in high school. Changing yourself after Lima didn't change the fact that you made all those mistakes. You have a lot on your plate, a lot to be sorry for.

"I've done…a lot of…bad things," you explain through a flat, cold tone, "Maybe...maybe..."

Brittany stares at you in disbelief, shaking her head, "No, San—stop it. You don't get to say that. How can you even think that? How can you think you dese—"

"Then why did it happen, Brittany!?" you cry out, gasping once the words explode from your lips.

She retracts, wincing at the harshness of your outburst. The tears finally fall from your eyes and that lump in your throat consumes your voice.

"Why…did it…happen to me?" you whimper between breaths, and shrug helplessly, "Why did he…what did I do?"

"Santana," Brittany murmurs, reaching out and pulling you into her body.

Her arms wrap around your body and envelop you into an embrace. You bury your eyes into her shoulder and feel the rush of tears consume your entire system. Your hands tremble in your lap and your body shakes too. You feel her warmth but it is too distant for you. With the little energy you have, you reach a little further and grip onto the hem of her shirt. Your fingers dig into the cotton and tug her enough so that she responds by holding you tighter.

"You did nothing wrong," she tells you quietly, "It just…happened. It was just a horrible…horrible thing."

That's the worst part about it all. That it just 'happened'. It happens and we can rarely ever stop it from happening. Many times, you don't realize the entirety of it until it's over because it only just sinks in once you are left alone and even though you are left to live, it feels like you are left to die. Yours went a little that way. Yours. As if it now belongs to you. As if it now embodies a chain around your ankle. As if it now makes its mark on you with a scar.

Yours. As if it belongs to you.

Desperate sobs break from your lips at the thought. Yours. Yours used to sound sweet, romantic. _I'm yours. I belong to you._ Yours used to be something you shared with Brittany. She was yours. She is yours now too but that's not how what you think of when you think of yours. That's the saddest part. Something that used to bring light to your life, yours, now lives in the darkness alongside you.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, hushing and holding you tighter, "I'm so sorry."

That's all she can be right? Sorry. She can't change what happened. She can't fix it either. You wish she could, for her sake. It must kill Brittany to know she can't do anything about what happened to you, but that's the how it is with all cases. The reason it is so horrible is because when it happens, it happens and there is no escaping. People can move on, it's entirely possible so you've heard, but none can forget. And the people around that one person often feel nothing but helpless, because what is it that they can do? What can Brittany do? She can't fix it. She can't erase it. She can't do anything except hold you, be here and be sorry that it happened, be sorry that you were hurt.

"I love you, okay?" she tells you, "I love you."

You reach further and fist the material of her shirt tightly, tugging as if you are hanging on for life. Your body shakes as you cry, feeling both burden and relief because it's the first time you've cried to someone about this. Brittany doesn't say much else besides that. She repeats the same three words over and over again, like an endless recording but each time with more love and meaning than the last. There is a part of you that wishes she would tell you things will be okay but another part is thankful that she doesn't because it always scares you even more to hear that. It only reminds you more of how uncertain you are about whether or not everything will work out, whether or not you'll ever be freed from it. Brittany knows you too well to tell you that everything will be okay because she knows you aren't the type of person who can just believe that easily. And somehow, by reminding you that she loves you, she's almost saying that she won't tell you things will be okay because she's going to show you instead. Not tonight, probably not tomorrow, and probably not the day after that either, but soon. Brittany knows, _somebody _knows, and that's enough for tonight.

* * *

There's a few knocks on the door, followed by the soft creak as it opens. Brittany turns slowly and sticks a hand out, gesturing for the incoming to be as quiet as possible. She is sitting on the bed with Santana resting on her chest. Brittany's arms are wrapped fully around the smaller body, as if protecting her from even the tiniest threats. Santana is asleep on her, and has been so for about an hour now, with one of her fists still clinging on to the material of Brittany's shirt in a feeble, weak attempt. Quinn and Tina shut the door behind them and make their way towards the bed. They're worried and confused because, even from the other side of the room, they can spot how red and swollen Brittany's eyes are.

"Hey," Tina whispers, reaching the side of the bed, "What happened?"

Tina softly brushes any wild strands of Brittany's hair behind her ear. Quinn gently takes a seat on the mattress next Brittany's outstretched legs, reaching out to place her hand on one of them. Brittany eyes them both carefully, with sadness still poisoning her eyes. She shrugs and feels another sharp sting in her stomach.

"Brittany, did she talk to you?" Quinn asks, picking up the details by herself.

Brittany nods and glances down at Santana. Her eyes glaze over her features; her lips, her nose, her eyes, her hair. She can't help but look at Santana and be afraid to touch her too roughly. Her skin looks more delicate and fragile than it used to, forbidden. As if she has forgotten that this is the love of her life and not something dangerous, not something threatening. She isn't scared of Santana. Brittany is just scared that she won't be able to connect as fully anymore because something has been taken from Santana.

"She told you something," Quinn assumes.

"Please don't wake her up," Brittany says quietly through a cracked, grainy whisper.

Quinn straightens up and shares a look with Tina, worry growing rapidly in their eyes. Tina places a hand on Brittany and strokes her back gently, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. Brittany closes her eyes and lowers to rest her cheek onto Santana's head without waking her up. She's fighting the battle of wanting to keep Santana as close as possible and fearing the very thought of touching her. Right now, however, Brittany tries not make this about her because it's not. None of this is about her, it's about Santana, and she is not about to put her feelings before Santana's, no matter how conflicting they are.

"Brittany," Quinn says softly, "Do you want us to…take over for a bit?"

Brittany pulls up slowly, "What?"

"You've been by her side since we got here," Tina adds, "You must be…a little tired of this room."

"It's not about me," Brittany says.

Santana shifts lightly against Brittany's chest and then falls back to sleep. Brittany stays frozen until Santana stops moving completely. When it seems clear, she releases the breath she had been holding.

"I know, but…" Quinn starts, "We're here too. You don't have to do it all."

"I'm sorry," she apologizes in a softer voice, "I know you guys probably want to talk and be with her but…I can't leave her."

"It's not that you're leaving her," Tina explains, "Listen, you don't have to go anywhere but we just want you to know that you don't have to stay here all night. "

"Yes, I do," Brittany responds immediately, "You guys…I…I do."

Quinn sighs and peers at her sadly, eyes shifting to look at the body that lies against Brittany. She watches the way Santana's chest rises and falls peacefully. It's the first time she has seen her best friend so vulnerable and small.

"It's so…strange to see her like this," Quinn admits, sinking into her position.

Brittany turns back slowly to look down at Santana, arms still holding her body tightly. She lightly strokes Santana's shoulder in a soothing rhythm, hoping that it somehow protects any frightening thoughts floating around in her subconscious right now.

"Brittany?" Tina asks quietly.

She glances up to Tina, brow lifting as she awaits the rest of the sentence.

"She's not…okay, is she?" Tina finishes, sharing a look with Quinn before returning to Brittany.

Brittany swallows hardly, knowing the answer to the question long before she's ready to say it. She shifts back and forth between looking at Quinn and Tina nervously, attempting to bring back her voice. She knows that Santana would want to tell them herself because it's her step to take. Talking to Quinn and Tina is part of overcoming her struggle so Brittany doesn't want to take that away from her. She lowers eye contact and stays silent. Quinn and Tina know what it means without the need to say anything, and it makes their stomachs shift unnervingly. They both knew something was wrong all along but to hear it confirmed, from someone who knows what it actually is, is more than discomforting.

"So you're going to stay here with her?" Quinn asks in light of changing the mood.

"Yeah," Brittany responds confidently.

Quinn shares a look with Tina before continuing, "I'm thinking of heading back to the apartment tonight. Get a good night's sleep, we could all use one."

Brittany watches Quinn stand up and search for her bag on the couch, "You're gonna leave?"

"Santana's asleep and I talked to Doctor before coming in," Quinn explains, "He said things are in order and that what's best right now is rest. For all of us."

"That's…actually a good idea," Tina adds, before looking down at Brittany, "Is that okay? Or do you…would you feel better if we stayed?"

"No, it's fine," Brittany tells them, "She's exhausted, so she probably won't be up for a while."

"Do you need anything while we're out?" Quinn asks thoughtfully.

Brittany pauses for a moment to think. She'll have to go home sometime within the next few days to shower and change but it's only been a day and she can hold out a little longer. Nothing important springs to mind so she shakes her head as a response. Quinn and Tina nod and head towards the door.

"We'll be back really soon," Tina says as she lets Quinn leave first before stepping out into the hallway too.

It's back to her and Santana again, but she feels alone. Brittany doesn't know if she has fully processed everything yet. She doesn't want to, not this. Watching every curve in Santana's face was torture, like being slowly and painfully attacked by needles to the flesh. Brittany can't understand how Santana could keep this a secret for so long, how she hasn't lost her mind yet. She can't even imagine what goes on in Santana's head anymore, how dark it must be, how dangerous. What bothers her more is how much it all makes sense. When Brittany puts together the last few weeks she has spent with Santana, this addition, this new piece of information she learned tonight fits perfectly into the mix. She wonders how she couldn't have figured it out, or how she couldn't have at least suspected something to this tragic degree.

Every time she closes her eyes, she thinks of someone else's hands on Santana but every time she opens them, she confronts the reality that those hands _were_ on Santana. It makes every part of her body shudder and twist disturbingly, like flesh being peeled and turned inside out. Brittany can't stop thinking about how it could have happened; how he could have found her, how he could have trapped her, how he could have kept her quiet. She shudders again but she tries not to close her eyes. She doesn't want to see any of her thoughts in visual and she hates the taste of that word now. He, and any other form of it—him, his. Her stomach churns distressingly as she sinks further into the mattress, clutching Santana closer to her chest.

* * *

Rapid thumping sounds in the distance somewhere. It grows louder and louder, and so does your conscience. Pieces of your mind slowly come together, with the background noise of a panicky beats. You're confused and you seem to be just waking up. You shift gently and remember that you're against Brittany's chest and that panicky noise is actually her heart. The rest comes back to you—all the facts about what happened when you were awake. It feels like a dream at first, like you never really told Brittany anything. The longer you spend awake, the more it becomes clearer that it wasn't a dream. You remember Brittany's face the most, especially since you're still subjecting yourself to the darkness. It even stings when you imagine it. If it wasn't for the distracting, unavoidable, beating of Brittany's worried heart, you'd probably fall back to sleep but now you can't. The distressful rhythm troubles you, even in this lazy, weak state you've woken up in. You know her heart is beating because she's thinking about you and not just about you but about what happened to you. She must be picturing it, somehow, some way, and you need her to stop doing that. Brittany will kill herself trying to fight off the images that probably keep showing up in her head undesirably. You need to figure out how to stop that.

"Breathe," you whisper lazily.

She stiffens and shifts up when she hears your voice.

"San?" she wonders.

"Stop thinking," you say quietly, keeping your eyes closed.

"I didn't…know you were awake," Brittany says, shifting again.

Her body moves too much that your head begins to slide so you decide to get up. You won't be going back to sleep despite how tired you are. Exhausted would be a better fit for how you feel. Emotionally, mentally, physically drained would work too. You keep forgetting that Brittany knows now and that there is one less person in the world that you have to hide from. After months of lying, though, you understand why it hasn't settled permanently yet. On the other hand, there was something you felt when you woke up just now that you haven't felt in a while and that was relief. Instead of opening your eyes and confronting a heavy burden, you found a little peace. You feel the gears inside your head finally correspond to the speed and language of your body for once and you're sure that it was because you told her, told someone. While it may have only been one step forward, it was a giant step for you but it also feels like it took all the energy you ever had. Your body feels flimsy and limp, heavy too—every time you try to move a muscle. You feel like a useless entity of weakness.

As you slowly lift your head from her shoulder, you find that you might need a little help trying to balance all your weight.

"Easy," she coos softly, guiding your head back to the pillows with gentle hands.

Your eyes are still closed and when the back of your head collides sweetly with the cotton of the pillows, you feel immediately relaxed again. She isn't holding you anymore, which you miss, but you can still feel her nearby. The comfort engulfs you wholly, without any objections from you or the outside world. Brittany adjusts the bed so that you're at a lower angle now and it's a little more like lying down rather than sitting up.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, and that voice is just another sweet addition to your calm world.

Slowly, you begin to peel your eyes open but the fluorescent lights burn holes in your vision. You squint and blink several times, scrunching your face because it's too bright to see openly. The bed lifts up and moments later, the lights dim down almost completely. Now that it's easier, you open your eyes wider and see more freely than seconds ago. Brittany returns to sit on the side of the bed, running a stressed hand across her forehead. Suddenly, from that small gesture, you feel something poison the serenity inside you. As you look closer at her, you realize how tired and drained she looks. Brittany doesn't even seem like the girl you've always known, not with the swelling of her eyes and dark patches of skin underneath. When she gazes down at you, she tries to smile lightly but it only makes you feel worse. Her attempt is feeble, because despite her effort, you can see how broken it appears. You wish you could do something to fix that, and normally you would, but right now you feel particularly weak. Much weaker than when you were last awake.

"What time is it?" you ask.

"2 in the morning," she responds before adjusting the softness of your pillow, "You fell asleep about six hours ago."

You swallow roughly, lifting your chin up to ease the process. It still hurts and you wince at the ache burning down your throat. Brittany's eyes watch more worriedly and for the sake of it, you let your hand fall off your stomach to the side of the bed where she sits. You find her hand and grip it weakly, though it's as tight as you can manage at the moment. Her eyes drop to look at your gesture and she returns it by picking up your hand and placing it on her lap. You know you can't smile but you try to express your feelings through the gaze instead, hoping she'll still understand it.

"Quinn and Tina went home for the night," Brittany informs you, "But they'll be back tomorrow, I promise."

You nod knowing that it would only make sense for them to want to sleep in their own beds after having stayed at the hospital for almost two days waiting for you to wake up. You wish Quinn and Tina were still sitting in the couch in front of you but you know they'll be back and that your 'talk' can wait until then.

"And you?" you ask quietly, wondering whether or not she left while you were asleep.

Brittany shakes her head gently, "I'm here."

You like the sound of that. _I'm here_. It's amazing how much two words can do for someone, like water for a deadly fire or a blanket for a cold, dark night. You don't need to hear it twice to know she isn't just telling you that she's physically here right now but also that she's here for every other part of this journey. You're going to need her, and Quinn and Tina too. It makes your chest warm and your body feel at ease. You breathe in heavily but feel a cough pushing its way out. It escapes and breaks from your lips as you shut your eyes to endure the pain. Brittany strokes your hand as you settle back down into the pillow breathlessly. The energy is completely drained from your system that if you even blink for a second too long, you might fall straight back to sleep.

"Are you okay?" she asks worriedly.

You respond with a nod and grainy whisper, "Yeah."

Brittany freezes for a moment at your response, inhaling deeply and holding her breath. At first, you're confused and you frown at the way she reacted. When she finally exhales into a small smile, you realize that you answered that question. You answered that question and what's even better is that you didn't even think about it. You answered because it was the only thing your mind told you to say, which implies you meant it. She watches you for the next few minutes, carefully admiring you and monitoring your health at the same time. You're thankful for Brittany, more than words or actions could ever probably say, because not only is she here but also because she helped you find the response to a question you haven't been able to answer properly since Spring Break.

A yawn impulsively escapes from your mouth and you watch her tilt her head to the side adorably.

"Did I wake you up?" she asks, hoping you say no.

"That did," you answer, lifting a weak hand up to tap against her chest.

She glances down at where you point and realizes you're referring to her heart. Brittany reaches up and grips your hand, taking it away from there and down to her lap.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes.

"I know what you're thinking," you tell her, "But…please…stop."

"I can't _not_ think about it, Santana," she explains sadly, "You were…"

She doesn't say the word and you know it's because you didn't use it either when you told the truth. You don't want to use it, not unless you have to later on in some kind of therapy session which you know you're going to have to attend. Rape. It makes all your insides scream and crawl for shelter. It makes your body shudder and weaken. Every letter and syllable runs a shiver down your spine and over every inch of skin you have. You don't want to say it out loud, not the word. The word makes you a victim, though that is what you are. The word makes you a statistic. The word takes even more away from whatever you have left and you don't want to say it. Maybe one day you'll be able to coexist with that word and not feel so powerlessly and inevitably vulnerable but today is not that day and it won't be for a while.

"Please, Britt," you beg softly, "Please stop…for me."

She breathes in your words and you watch the way they spread throughout her body. Brittany squeezes your hand and leans down, aiming to place a kiss on your forehead. Before she reaches you, you tilt your head further backwards and catch her attention. Your eyes meet and you blink softly, waiting until she grasps the idea. Brittany inhales deeply once she understands and shifts down slowly. Her lips captures yours so gently, you could barely notice when the kiss started. Your eyes flutter shut and, despite your lack of energy and strength, the kiss still spins your head into swirls and throws your heart offbeat. When she pulls away, you don't open your eyes immediately but instead keep them lingered shut as she rests her forehead on yours.

"I will do anything for you," she promises, against your lips, "You know that, right?"

You nod and breathe in to fill your lungs with air you lost from the kiss.

"We're going to get you through this," Brittany continues confidently, "You…and me…and the girls, okay?"

For the first time, you believe it, and maybe it's because you finally broke free from that wounded stage or maybe it's because Brittany can do that. You like to think it could be both, because someone in this world finally knows and it happens to be the one person who has always made you believe whether it was believing in unicorns, believing in magic, or a believing in a time and place when you are finally okay. If you've learned anything about Brittany, it's that you need to keep her around because she helps you do the things you may otherwise never have the courage to do. It's something about the way she makes you feel safe and accepted, no matter what happens. And the best part about her is that she doesn't _make _you do things or _do _them _for _you. She just inspires the part of you that was already there and just needed a little extra strength. At the end of the day, it's you who will overcome the struggle and you who will get yourself through this mess, but it is Brittany's hand holding yours that will keep you from tripping along the way. Additionally, it's Quinn's and Tina's and even Puck's hand that will serve as extra support.

"Okay," you reply, and with a heart beating so purposefully you could swear that a sliver of your darkness was just replaced with light.

* * *

**A/N: Gosh, okay. Firstly, I'm sorry again for the wait. I've had so many messages asking me to update and I kept saying soon but it kept taking longer than I thought. So I'm sorry, but I'm very thankful that you cared enough to follow up on this story. Secondly, I hope none of you are discouraged to keep reading. I mentioned from the very beginning about the nature of this fic but I understand that this is still a lot to process. Since I didn't actually say it point blank in the fic, I'll just confirm now that Santana was raped during Spring Break. She was 20 at the time and the 'he' they refer to is the man who raped her. I think it was quite clear, even before this chapter, but I'm just stating it for anyone who may be confused. I never really meant for it to be hidden to the readers. I knew people would figure it out quite a while before it would actually be revealed in the fic, so that explains why I didn't really write it in a shocking and unbelievable way, but rather something more realistic (or so I intended).**

**Other than that, I hope you enjoyed reading the chapter. Let me know how you feel, your thoughts, and all that. Like I said, I'll really try to be better at updating. Thank you all so much for sticking around! And, oh, remember that I'm always here to talk! :**

**Disclaimer: the title is from the song Worn Me Down by Rachel Yamagata**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I don't even want to talk about my behavior. We can just all throw shoes at me, I know, I'm sorry. Here's the chapter though, I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Surprise **

Her head rests on your lap, facing you, but with only the fluttering eyes of someone who is lost in a deep sleep. She breathes in even intervals, in and out, like the rhythm of a perfectly composed song. You wonder whether her heartbeat is as calm. You hope it is for her sake, because Brittany has looked nothing but broken and exhausted for the past two days and you want her to keep sleeping. She has been so good to you throughout this, especially last night when you told her, that the least you can do is let her rest. She kept trying to stay awake, begging you to make sure she doesn't fall asleep, but the moment you realized she had drifted off, you had no intention of bringing her back. She looks peaceful right now and that's what you care about. You kept remembering her face when she realized what you were telling her, what you were _really _saying. The process of how she fell apart replayed like a broken mix tape, so to finally see her eyes close and her body relax was more than rewarding.

You, on the other hand, have been awake for a while now, since two a.m. when the sound of her heartbeat pulled you from your sleep. You spent some of the next hour or so whispering with her in the darkness, but then it became you and her just being, just existing alongside each other. Brittany and you were content to keep each other company in silence, even though there was still so much to talk about. The beautiful thing about you and Brittany is that you know when to give space and when to take it away. She knows when all you need is for her to just be, without words, and that this is one of those times. For now. She doesn't have to say anything about what happened to you yet. You don't expect her to know what to do or how to help you but that doesn't bother you because you know that if she _did _know, she would stop at nothing to make it happen. You won't say that you're glad you waited long enough for Brittany to be the one you told first, because a lot of damage has come from that waiting period, but you will confidently admit that you are more than glad she was the first. Deep down, somewhere along the lines, you feel as though you always knew it had to be Brittany.

She fell asleep a couple hours ago and you have been trying to do so yourself, but there is a little too much going on in your head. It's nearly six in the morning now and you've spent the past hour shifting between admiring the sleeping beauty in your lap and trying to plan what you're supposed to tell Quinn and Tina when they come back. Confessing what happened gave you strength, no doubt, because suddenly there is one less person in this world that you have to hide from and that strips away some of the fear. The idea of making that three less people in the world sounds reassuring, comforting, because you're exhausted. You're so tired of shoving that ruthless demon deeper down into your soul and locking it up that, and you'll admit this truly, you finally want to start talking about it. You don't want this part of your past to be the reason you can't ever have a bright future, it shouldn't be. In the very few words Brittany spoke when holding you tightly as you cried last night, she helped you believe a little more in that idea of 'okay'. You'll be okay. After months of denying that with all your shattered heart, you finally have a little less doubt and little more belief. Maybe it's not much at all, but it's something and it's a good something. As good as something can be right now at least.

You're fighting a battle between staying awake and falling asleep; between the mental chaos that keeps you alert and the physical pain that makes you want to slip away forever. Every time your eyelids close to blink, they get heavier when you peel them open again. Your head feels like it gained ten pounds and now weighs more than the rest of your body. Your brain feels magnified inside your skull, pounding against your temples. Your chest is the worst, though, because it feels like a thousand tiny knives keep firing at your heart. It isn't that unbearable burst of pain that is done and over in ten seconds. It's that disturbing, unsettling, nauseating kind of feeling that is mild enough to endure but uncomfortable enough to drive you insane. You feel queasy but you've been treating it by very calmly and steadily directing all your attention towards watching Brittany as her upper body splays over the edge of the bed onto your lap.

As you sink into your pillow, you keep your eyes on her. She doesn't look uncomfortable, but you can't imagine sitting in that chair with her body bent over is an ideal position to relax in. If you had the strength, you would stand up and carry her to the couch across the room but getting out of this bed seems like a sliver of a chance. You barely have the energy to move your fingers.

The softness of the cotton engulfs you wholly, as if being swallowed by a calm wave of chilled water. That's the strange part; the cold. Despite Brittany's body draped across your lower half, you're close to shivering. Your internal environment feels warm, hot even, but what collides against your skin is cold. It feels similar to the initial symptoms of a fever, perhaps that's what it is.

Just as you begin to drift towards that other world, the door slowly opens. The room is bright enough without the lights since the sun has risen already. You let your head fall a little in that direction to see who is entering the room and sigh when you do. A nurse walks in quietly, ready for your morning check up—or so you assume. She eyes Brittany strangely, as if wondering how someone could possibly stay with a patient for as long and as dedicatedly as she has. You want to tell her not to be too loud because Brittany can't wake up yet. She needs more time to rest—more time to not have to think about everything you told her as well as everything you didn't tell her yet and still need to.

"Good morning, Ms. Lopez," she says quietly, taking into consideration the sleeping body, "It's standard procedure that I do a check up."

"Right now?" you whisper, wincing when pain shoots up your throat, "Can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid not," she tells you, carefully studying the arm Brittany is not lying on.

She turns it over gently so the inside of your forearm faces up, exposing the crease of your joint where the needle enters your body. She gently tears off the tape and removes the needle, wiping the area of your skin with a piece of cotton. She pauses momentarily and frowns, causing you, in turn, to do the same. The nurse touches her fingertips to your skin lightly, and pats it around that area before placing her entire palm onto your arm. You glance back and forth between her face and her hands, confused by her strange reaction.

"Have you been feeling alright?" she asks cautiously, the frown still pasted on her face.

You squint and swallow roughly, the soreness you feel easily reminding you of your answer, "Uh…I've been…better."

The nurse gently grips a few more places along your arm and it's only once she reaches for your forehead when you realize what she's doing. She flattens the back of her hand against your forehead and glances over to the heart monitor.

"You're very warm," she states, removing her hand and shifting over to work on setting up a new IV bag and needle.

"Is this…bad?" you ask worriedly.

You try to lift your head up from the pillow but the first attempt already has you collapsing back down.

"You have a fever, but there could be a number of reasons why and I wouldn't be the one to know which," she explains, attaching a tube to the IV bag and hanging it up on the hook, "I'll page Dr. Sanders."

She opens a sterilized needle and joins it together with the set. She returns to your arm, one hand dabbing that same spot with a fresh cotton piece and the other with the needle ready to inject you. Just as she guides it towards you and the tip touches your skin, you shut your eyes and endure the short sting that follows. Your blood feels thick and heavy and slow, like that needle suddenly injected a poison. The nurse strips off a new line of tape and secures the wire onto the inside of your forearm, identical to before but merely with a newer, cleaner, fresher set of tools.

You breathe out and begin to peel your eyes open again after a while, catching her just as she is cleaning up and disposing of the used materials. She stands at the foot of the bed now and updates your chart, taking stats from the monitors. Your eyes gradually move away from the nurse and back to Brittany, who you're surprised hasn't felt any kind of movement yet. As always, you find yourself travelling down those familiar paths of hers, losing yourself in the loose strands of hair, the fluttering eyes, the rising and falling motion.

"It's good to a have a lot of support," the nurse says, glancing up quickly from her scribbling hand and pointing at Brittany. She raises an eyebrow casually and returns to the chart to continue writing, "Your friend has been here day and night."

You swallow that same lump, awaiting the ache and wincing when it strikes against the insides of your throat. You forget about the nurse and focus on Brittany, feeling warmth spread throughout your chest.

"Dr. Sanders will be here shortly," she informs you, briefly hindering your concentration as your eyes shift up to the nurse again.

She nods once and offers a smile before turning and heading towards the door. You look away shortly afterwards, feeling no need to see her out. Your eyes fall back to Brittany as you take a deep breath.

"You're awake?" someone says from the door, walking in just as you turn to look.

"Quinn," you breathe out, slightly shocked by the appearance—especially at this hour of the morning.

You're still speaking in a volume just above a whisper and Quinn catches on to the fact that you're trying not to wake Brittany. She walks to the other side of your bed cautiously, dropping her bag and jacket off on the couch on her way. You notice that she's alone, without Tina, and you wonder what the reason is behind that. You glance towards the door, awaiting Tina's arrival, but Quinn must have noticed as she begins to offer an explanation.

"Tina has back-to-back classes at 7," Quinn tells you, "So she'll be here later."

You nod stiffly, reminding yourself that once you're out of this hospital, you need to pay more attention to what's going on in their lives.

"What are you doing up?" Quinn asks, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed, "You should be resting."

"Can't sleep," you answer vaguely and watch as Quinn squints at your response.

She eventually sighs and turns to Brittany, "How is she doing?"

You follow Quinn's eyes and land on the sleeping body beside you. You take your time to study Brittany and absorb whatever evidence you can use to answer that question on her behalf.

"Overwhelmed…I think," you reply.

"And you?" Quinn asks, reaching to straighten out strands of your hair, "You're the patient here. How are you feeling?"

Her fingers brush against your skin and, just like the nurse, she pauses. She tests with the back of her hand, again like the nurse, and feels your forehead, frowning with the results.

"You're hot, Santana," Quinn tells you, scooting a little closer as her hand moves to your neck.

You chuckle instinctively with the smallest ounce of energy you have left, exposing you neck slowly for her to examine, "Thanks."

"Ha. Glad you still have a sense of humor," Quinn says, her face falling flat as she stares at you sharply, "Seriously, San, you're burning up."

"The nurse said that too," you inform Quinn, "She's sending the Doc in."

"Are you okay?" she asks worriedly.

"Shh…" you warn her gently for speaking slightly louder than before.

"Sorry," Quinn apologizes, glancing back to Brittany.

Silence lingers in the next few seconds until another person walks in, but this time with a much louder voice.

"Ms. Lopez!" Dr. Sanders says enthusiastically, "How are we today?"

Your eyes shut immediately as you feel Brittany's body jolt. She's awake now.

"What did I do?" you hear the doctor say, probably after he noticed the way your face scrunched.

"Um…we were hoping to stay quiet for our friend," Quinn answers for you.

"Oh…I'm…I'm sorry, ma'am," he apologizes, but it doesn't mean anything now that Brittany has lifted up from lying down on you.

You haven't opened your eyes yet but the weight that was on your body has now relieved itself so you know that Brittany is most likely sitting up with her fists twisting circles against her eyes.

"What's going on?" Brittany says sleepily.

Her voice brings you to blink open and find her. Brittany glances over her shoulder at the doctor and then back to you, still squinting adorably.

"San…" she says, shifting closer, "Are you okay?"

You smile for her, swallowing hardly as you nod. Something pounds harder inside your head, the thumps growing increasingly louder, but you try to block it out for Brittany. You'd rather focus on her now, even though just the thought of 'focusing' sounds impossible.

"My apologies, again," Dr. Sanders says, making his way to the chart and this time directing his words to you, "I hope you had a good enough rest, though."

"I'm fine," you lie, still unable to gather enough strength in your neck muscles to lift your head off the pillow.

"Yeah, nice try," Quinn interrupts, turning to the doctor, "She's burning up."

Brittany spins to you and studies your current state. Perhaps a moment ago, she wasn't alert enough to notice but it seems as though now she picks up on your exhausted appearance. Based on how nauseous you feel, it wouldn't come as a surprise to find out that you look pale in the face or have a few dark patches under your eyes, and definitely chapped lips. You know the last one for sure because you feel the cracks and splits as you run your tongue across your bottom lip.

Brittany's gaze intensifies and she reaches out towards you, aiming to check your forehead like everybody seems to be doing lately. Her soft palm meets your skin and her face frowns, also like the rest.

"Santana," she breathes out, still relatively sleepy, "Quinn's right, you have a fever."

"Alright, don't panic," Dr. Sanders says calmly, shifting around the bed to your side, "Let's just see what were working with."

His hand comes against your forehead, his brow furrowing as he analyzes the results in his head. You close your eyes temporarily, feeling a discomforting ache mix into the darkness. You're beginning to worry, just a tiny bit, that something else is wrong. Dr. Sanders huffs quietly and you peel the heavy lids of your eyes open again, finding him as he reaches for the flashlight pen in his coat pocket. He clicks it on and slowly shines it straight into your eyes, one at a time. You're blinded for the time being and the brightness stabs through your pupils into the back of your brain. When he pulls away and the light finally disappears, your vision is still impaired—whiteness, then little tiny dots, then squiggly lines, then some colors, then some objects, then the world restored.

"Is she alright?" Quinn asks, observing Dr. Sanders as he turns to examine the monitor.

"She has a fever, but I can't say yet whether it is mild or something of our concern," Dr. Sanders responds, "But any fever or typical mild flu can be dangerous for you, Ms. Lopez, considering the weakness of your immune system right now."

You gulp down that nervous lump lodged in your throat, enduring the pain as it tears away the flesh on its way. The doctor notices the way you cringe.

"Does it hurt when you swallow?" he asks observantly.

"Sure," you choke out, making it evident that it does.

"What about chest pains?" he wonders further, "Have you been experiencing any of those?"

"Uh," you mutter, shutting your eyes as if fishing for an alternative answer than the one you already have.

"Santana," Brittany whispers suddenly.

You open your eyes to her and confront a harsh, desperate, burning gaze. At first, you don't know what she wants but the longer you spend in her eyes, the clearer it becomes. Brittany's begging you to tell the truth about what you feel. She thinks you're locking up the pain and hiding it, despite how hard that is for one to do in a hospital. Have you, though? Have you been minimizing the symptoms so that people would stop worrying? Either way, it's time _you_ stop. Brittany's broken glare reminds you of that.

"Yes," you finally answer, looking up to the doctor, "Often."

Brittany breathes out a conflicted sigh, perhaps relieved that you admitted the pain but now burdened with the truth that you're not feeling better. She is also probably juggling the guilt she has about falling asleep for so long and leaving you alone. You didn't mind that at all, and you don't blame her in any way, but you know she'll beat herself up for it since she had specifically told you she would stay awake.

"I need to run some tests," Dr. Sanders explains, "…to see what kind of precautions we need to take."

"Now?" you ask.

"As soon as possible, yes," he responds, "I've been carefully looking over your initial MRI scans in more detail and I think I have some good news—well…slightly better news than before."

"What do you mean?" Brittany asks, casually sliding her hand to yours and gripping it lightly.

"Well, I had assumed Ms. Lopez had damaged the inner tissue of her heart that needed repairing through a surgery…but I noticed that the tissue isn't necessarily damaged at all. It's more…swollen from what we can see. And in that case, surgery wouldn't be the solution."

"So…" Quinn says, drawing out the word.

"So chances are that we may not have to take such an invasive approach," Dr. Sanders says, "_If _the tissue is merely swollen."

"And how do you know if it is or isn't swollen?" Quinn asks.

"I'd like to run a blood test and an echocardiogram," he suggests, "That way we can better understand what we're really working with here."

"Echocardiogram?" you repeat in confusion.

"It's an ultrasound scan of the heart," he elaborates, "It's the same concept as an ultrasound for pregnancies and we can use it to gain a sense of any significant damage."

You're trying to keep track of what has been said across the board in the last few minutes, but all that stands out is the possibility that you might _not_ need heart surgery. Even though the doctor said he still has to run more tests to see if that's true, you allow yourself to feel relieved for the time being and cross your fingers that you won't end up on a table with a knife cracking open your chest. The thought of it still terrifies you.

"So if you're ready," Dr. Sanders proposes, clapping his hands together once, "I'll have the nurses prep you."

"Do we have to leave for this?" Brittany wonders, still gripping your hand.

"No, but you might want to step away momentarily while the nurses set up," he informs her.

Quinn slowly stands from the bed but places a hand on your wrist. She holds you gently, eyes peering down with a hint of a smile to comfort you. It feels good when Quinn looks at you this way because aside from all the crap you two throw at each other, she's one of the few people that have an impact on you and the way you feel.

"We'll be right over there, okay?" she tells you.

You nod and watch Quinn back up towards the couch before you turn to Brittany. She looks too worried, as if she feels that at any moment your hand could vanish from hers and you'll disappear entirely. You don't blame her for thinking that. If the situation were reversed and it were Brittany in this bed, you'd be lucky if _all _you were was just worried. There would be so much more going on, so much to lose, that you'd probably find yourself on the brink of insanity. So you don't want that for Brittany. It's bad enough that you're in here. You don't want to make matters any worse, for anyone.

"Wait," you say quickly as a thought pops into your mind.

The doctor turns around as he was on his way to call the nurses and waits for you to speak. Brittany and Quinn stop too, expecting eyes cornering you from each angle.

"Can you…give me a moment?" you tell Dr. Sanders, "Like…fifteen minutes or something."

He takes a deep breath and nods, "Um…of course."

"I promise it won't be long," you explain to him, temporarily ignoring the looks that Quinn and Brittany are giving you, "Then you can run whatever tests you need."

"I'll come back then," Dr. Sanders says, pressing his lips to a small smile and turning to leave the room.

"What's the matter?" Brittany asks, making her way back to you.

You direct your strength to your hands and press them down into the mattress in hopes to push yourself up. It's so hard, much harder than it should be, but with a little help from your friends who came back to your side, you manage to sit yourself up further.

"Thanks," you say quietly.

Quinn and Brittany sit back down on the edge of the bed and wait for you to explain. You aren't quite sure what you're going to say but you know it needs to happen now. Quinn has waited too long and she deserves the truth, now that you've already told Brittany. As you clear your throat, you rest your head to the pillow so that you don't have to keep it up on your own.

"Quinn," you say, but your voice ironically ends up grainier than it was before.

"I'm here," she responds, sharing a quick but worried look with Brittany.

Quinn takes your hand in hers and holds it tightly, allowing her warmth to spread into your body. You smile softly at the gesture and look into her eyes, pulling together words to form the first sentence on this subject.

"I'm…sorry," you apologize.

She frowns and shakes her head lightly, "For what, honey?"

"Everything," you say vaguely, "You're my best friend…I should have treated you like one."

Quinn turns to Brittany again and you follow her eyes to the other girl sitting beside you. Brittany offers Quinn a gentle smile before facing you and meeting your eyes. You take a deep breath, as you always do when you look at Brittany, and swallow hardly, pushing yourself to continue on. Quinn is so different from Brittany, in so many ways, that this process won't be at all like the one last night. You can't talk to Quinn the way you talk to Brittany because she won't understand it the same way and that's not her fault. You and Quinn just aren't the same as you and Brittany and that's why telling her this is still going to feel like tearing open a stitched wound. You can already feel those old aches becoming fresh again, growing from the core of your heart outwards to the rest of your body.

Finally, you turn back to Quinn and close your eyes briefly. You swallow here again, preparing yourself for what you've been terrified of for so long—for the second time.

"Before they do the tests and…all that," you say, feeling your voice thicken, "I need to…tell you what happened."

"Okay," Quinn says, squeezing your hand tighter, "I'm all ears, Santana."

You feel the need to blow out a breath but when you do, it comes out quivery. That air fluctuates out from your mouth, magnifying how nervous and scared you still are. You wonder how many times you're going to have to explain this. You haven't given much thought to who you want to reveal this part of your past to, other than Brittany, Quinn and Tina.

"The past few months have been the way that they are for a reason," you start slowly, easing into the topic, "Dropping out of school, ruining…everything, taking the drugs. I did it all because…because I needed…I just…"

You struggle and fumble to come up with an explanation. It takes a while before you realize that you don't actually have one. The rape was what drove you to do it all but whether it was the fear, the lack of purpose, the trauma that belonged to it—you don't really know yet. Maybe it's all of it combined. Either way it worries you to not be entirely sure.

Suddenly, you chest tightens and your start to breathe a little faster than before. Naturally, you retreat to Brittany for comfort. When you meet her, you notice the way her eyes are becoming glossy but also the way she quickly tries to cover up her frown with encouraging words.

"It's okay…" Brittany whispers, noticing how you reacted, "You're doing good."

She offers you a smile, and while it still brings you warmth, you can tell that its only there to cover up what's hidden. You realize that Brittany has to hear this again, just like you have to tell it again, but she's making herself deal with it because, as always, she puts you before her own feelings. You want to tell her she can leave, that she doesn't have to endure this, but you have to admit that you don't think you could do it without her nearby. Yes, Quinn is your best friend but this isn't something a person can just talk about and it certainly takes longer than overnight to feel comfortable with bringing up subject. Even though you hate putting her through this, you need Brittany beside you so you smile back, or try to at least, and then return to Quinn.

"I...was scared," you finally say, letting that be the reason for now, "And…I was scared because I was…"

You exhale slowly to try and control your breathing and let the next part of the sentence come through but it doesn't work. Quinn tries to stay patient but you can tell she doesn't understand whereas Brittany had already begun to realize at this point in your conversation last night. You know what you need to say—_I was…raped—_but you can't say it. Your lips come as close as forming the shape to pronounce the 'r' but that's it. Nothing budges past that point and you realize that it's still too soon. Like you said last night, you don't want to say the word. It would only belittle you and that's not what you need. You'll have to come up with another way to tell Quinn instead.

"Uh…I…remember when I…went away for Spring Break," you try again, watching the memory click in Quinn's eyes.

"Yes," she answers firmly.

"I…um…" you blow out another breath and then inhale deeply to encourage yourself to continue, "There…was a man…and…on the last night…he…I was walking and…"

Quinn slowly straightens up in her seated position and you can tell that from that one word—_man—_that she has connected the pieces. Her eyes burn into yours, almost as if begging you to say anything except what she's thinking right now. You wish you could. You wish you had some other story, some other explanation to give, but you don't and you never will.

"No," she breathes out in disbelief.

Your shoulders lift, basically confirming for her that she's right to think what she's thinking. Quinn turns to Brittany with that broken, terrified, look on her face that only worsens seconds later. You turn too, but regret it the moment you see Brittany. She's facing away from you, but her hand still grips yours, with her chin to her far shoulder. You can't see anything except her hair and some of the side of her face. It's enough, however, to see that her eyes are shut tightly. Moments later, you hear her sniff and slowly come back to you, keeping her head low. Her free hand reaches up and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Britt," you murmur, frowning worriedly and wincing as a splitting ache pierces through your chest.

"No…no, sorry, don't…just keep going," she whispers, keeping her head down.

You face Quinn again, but squeeze Brittany's hand tightly. Quinn's eyes are beginning to water now too which shocks you because you can't remember the last time she cried in front of you.

"Santana," she chokes out, "Were you …please don't tell me what I think you're saying."

You press your lips together and shrug again, giving her your answer without saying it out loud. Tears sting in your eyes quickly once you see how Quinn's composure breaks down. She shuts her eyes and lets her head hang, shaking it back and forth. She spends a few seconds denying it and then lifts up again.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, scooting closer to you.

"I…tried," you admit, feeling a lump slowly slide up your throat and consume your voice "I tried to tell…someone but…it was…I didn't know how and so…I thought I could just…deal with it on my own."

"Oh, Santana," Quinn says through a breath.

You know she didn't mean for them to but her words makes your tears fall faster. They slip over your eyelids and burn down your cheek so you shut your eyes to endure it. Your body feels weakened, again surrendering to that bleeding scar that has and continues to dominate your existence. You turn back to Brittany and try to get her to look at you but she's bent over even more now.

"Brittany," you call softly, the pain you feel coming through in your thick, crackly voice, "Please…look at me."

She shakes her head a few times, but not as a response, and then sniffs as she reveals her face and peers back at you. Her eyes are a red and watery, which is a sight that never fails to make you feel like you were punched and kicked in the stomach. You muster enough strength to reach up and touch the back of your fingers to her cheek, pleading for her to stop crying. She grips your wrist and brings it to her chest instead, holding your palm against it for comfort and also to remind you that despite her reaction, she's still ready to be strong for you. Her heart beat tells you that as it thumps forcefully against your hand.

"I'm sorry," you tell her, and then repeat it to both of them, "I'm sorry…I didn't…tell you sooner."

"No," Brittany whispers.

"No, Santana," Quinn adds, "Don't…you don't have to say that, okay?"

"You're telling us now. That's what matters," Brittany explains, trying to squeeze out a smile for you but it fails.

"But look at me," you say, "Look what I've done to myself. I've…_fuck."_

"No, hey," Quinn hushes and reaches to stroke a few strands of hair behind your ear, "Don't worry, you're going to walk out of this place."

"And we're going to help you with anything you need," Brittany adds, sniffling away her tears simultaneously.

Something spreads throughout your chest, like another kind of warmth, and settles some of the flames, treats some of the burns. It's the combination of Quinn and Brittany's support, fusing together and lifting you to a better place. You can finally take a breath again and feel it enter and leave your body smoothly. You didn't know that telling someone could be this rewarding. You didn't think that people would take it well, or even understand it the way you need them too, but you should have had a little faith in your friends—in your family. You should have remembered that these people sometimes know you better than you know yourself, that they're not going to turn they're back on you, that they never will. You should have remembered that these people are different, that they're the ones who were there for you when the rest of the world wasn't. You should have had a little faith in the people who have always had faith in you.

"I love you," you confess, "Both…of you."

Quinn offers you a small smile before leaning in to give you a hug. It's a little difficult because you can't really push off the bed so she just lies against you. You lift up your chin to let Quinn's head rest on your shoulder, eyes shifting over to Brittany and tugging on her arm to join. Brittany moves forward and twists around to sit beside you in the same direction, placing an arm around your body and resting her head to yours. You lean into her, still hugging Quinn, and feel Brittany place a kiss to your hair. It feels peaceful, like a battle has just been silenced and all the bodies have been cleared and the blood washed away, leaving nothing behind but a growing meadow of something fresh, a beginning. You hope that things will only get brighter from here on because you think it's about time for you to get your life back—to wrestle it free from the grip of your tragic past and find it a new home.

Suddenly, just as you finished that thought, a sharp pain strikes inside your chest and you wince, cringing at the impact. Brittany distances herself and looks down at you while Quinn quickly sits up again.

"Santana?" Brittany says worriedly.

Your eyes shut and you lunge forward when the sting intensifies, gasping at the attack against you. The warmth in your chest becomes increasingly hot, not in a comforting way at all. Burns come and go, ripping through the walls of the muscles around your heart. A tear gathers at the corner of your eye and you peel open to look straight at the wall in front of you, letting it fall to your cheek. The pain is excruciating and you don't know what's causing it. The beeping of your heart increases on the monitor as you can hear. You release that breath and fall back against your pillow. You turn to glance at the screen and watch as the rate fluctuates and beats abnormally.

"Whoah, whoah, whoah…okay, Santana, what's going on?" Quinn asks hurriedly.

"Quinn call the doctor," Brittany orders quickly before focusing on you again in panic, "San! Hey, look at me, hey, what's the matter?"

You find her eyes again and inhale desperately, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

"I d..on't…know," you choke out.

"Okay, just…we're getting the doctor, just stay with me," she pleads, "Just keep looking at me, okay? I'm right here."

You nod and listen to her voice, but as soon as you try to stay calm, another sharp blast hits your chest and you clench your jaw to suppress the scream. It still pushes through your teeth and echoes around you as you bend over again. It's the kind of pain you think you could pass out from, and you very well might. Brittany holds your neck and tries to keep you conscious but you want to give up and give in so badly. You don't want to fight this; it hurts too much, like what you might imagine it feels to be stabbed over and over again in the heart. Your chest feels like it caught on fire and that fire is now spreading to your neck and arms.

"Make it stop!" you growl through gritted teeth even though you know Brittany can't do anything right now.

Your screams turn into cries as it becomes unbearable, slicing and tearing and ripping through your chest so destructively. Brittany's gaze burns worriedly into you as she continues to hold you and endure the death grip you have on her arm. Your fingernails dig into her skin, though you not really aware of it, and tears flow from your eyes.

"What's the matter?!" a voice says, but you can't pinpoint the source.

Another sharp burst of pain explodes in your chest and shut your eyes to scream, this time without clenching your jaw. All other sounds block out as you cry, but you feel a force push you down to the bed and hold you there. Your shoulders are held steadily and forcefully against the mattress. You keep crying because the stinging worsens, as if it somehow grew edges and cuts through the flesh inside your chest.

"Ms. Lopez?!" Dr. Sanders calls, coming into view above you.

"Just call her Santana, her name is Santana," Brittany panics.

"Santana," the doctor repeats, "Santana, I need you to tell me what you're feeling."

"I don't know, I don't know!" you cry.

You barely pay attention to anything around you because it's not really that important when in any moment you feel like your chest could explode and kill you.

"Describe the pain," he insists, "Is it burning?"

"Yes!" you answer immediately.

Dr. Sanders points to a nurse and give her an order.

"Shoot her 5mg of morphine," he says, and then returns to you, "Santana, we're giving you something to relieve the pain, alright?"

You nod cooperatively as more tears escape from the corners of your eyes.

"Okay," he says slowly, still holding you down to keep you from squirming, "Now I need you to try and stay still for me, okay?"

You collapse back onto the mattress and try to keep yourself down, shutting your eyes and piercing your teeth through your bottom lip. The sharp burst passes, hopefully for good, but you're still left with a burning sensation inside your chest. Your hand is suddenly gripped tightly and pressed into the bed. There's pressure around your wrist and at the crease of your elbow, slowly numbing the length of your forearm. You breathe in and out slowly, but then feel another oncoming blow to your heart, shutting your eyes and screaming through tears. Your back arches up and you turn to bury your face into the pillow, suppressing the groans. You feel a faint poke into your skin and then a heavy substance seeping into your veins. You turn back and open your eyes to the ceiling, lifting your chin up to ease the process of the breathing. The air scrapes through your throat, scratching its way in and out as if there is not enough room. You don't even know where Quinn and Brittany are right now but, and surprisingly, you don't spend too much time caring about that. After all, you're just trying to survive this.

"How are we doing? Does is still hurt?" the doctor asks.

You nod as the burns continue to fire at your heart.

"Okay, I want you to count to ten," he orders.

You begin doing so in your head but when you reach four, you start to slow down. Your arms and legs become numb and, soon, your chest. The pain fades and you stop writhing as much as you had been, gradually sinking into mattress like liquid. Your eyes blink slowly, growing heavier and lazier by the second. After the third time that your eyelids close, they remain shut and then it feels nice and quiet and relaxing as you slip into some other world.

* * *

Brittany's hand grips a fistful of her own hair as she stands back and watches as Santana passes out. She shakes her head and feels the tears building up behind her eyes and the sobs in her throat. She presses her lips together tightly, trying to push the overwhelming emotions away but she already knows she won't be able to.

"Is she okay?" Quinn asks the doctor once the room has settled down a little.

"She's unconscious," Dr. Sanders reports, "We gave her a lot, but I think I know what the problem is. I'm going to run those tests now, so if you'd like to wait outside that would be best."

Brittany doesn't stay for the end of the sentence before she turns and storms out of the room. Quinn's head snaps to watch her leave, seconds later jolting from her position to follow Brittany out into the hallway. Brittany reaches the dead end and bends over, burying her facing into the palms of her hands. She doesn't bother suppressing the cries that overpower her strength and escape past her mouth.

"Brittany," Quinn calls out as she catches up to her and slows down when she reaches the end.

Brittany sinks further and finally falls to the floor, sitting against the wall with her knees at her chest and her head tucked into the space in between. Quinn drops down and places a hand on Brittany's arm, holding it with a firm grip. She strokes Brittany's hair and rubs her back for comfort.

"Britt," she murmurs again, "Hey, come on…you have to stay with me okay, you have to stay strong."

She shakes her head and coughs out a sob, sniffing before emerging from the dark. Her lips part but nothing comes out except for quick gasps of air, breaking apart her ability to speak. Quinn reaches and wipes her eyes, lingering afterwards to hold her face gently.

"I know this is hard," Quinn says softly, "I hate is as much as you do. I hate what happened to her. I hate that someone hurt her and that we can't do anything about it. I hate it more than I've ever hated anything but I'm so thankful she finally told me. God knows I could have said or done the wrong thing that would have been the worst thing for her."

"Quinn," Brittany chokes out, words separated by pants, "I don't…know…what to do anymore."

Quinn pauses and retracts, frowning at Brittany's words.

"I ca-an't keep…watching her…like this," she continues, shaking her head and breaking into another sob.

"Stop," Quinn insists, placing her hands firmly to hold Brittany's face, "Look, none of us want to be in this position, especially Santana, and the tragic part is that it wasn't her fault. Someone took advantage of her. We can't fix that but we can try to fix this. I know you know this already, Brittany, but you need to stay and you need to be here for her. You can't go running off because things get too hard. Imagine how hard it's been for Santana. If she needs anyone in this world, it's you."

Brittany endures the harsh glare that Quinn sends her knowing that everything she's saying is right. Brittany didn't say it to mean she was going to ditch Santana and run away. She didn't mean that she was going to give up. Brittany knows she'd never do that but those words came from a moment of weakness and in all fairness, she's allowed to have them. A lot of people tend to forget that after the patient herself, there are people around them that have to survive the pain. Sometimes you need a moment to yourself to make sure you're still going to be the best that you can be for the person who needs it. Brittany needs one of those moments. She hasn't had one to herself yet since Santana woke up for the first time here.

"Okay?" Quinn says, checking to make sure Brittany will be cooperative.

Brittany nods in response and releases the grip she has around her legs. Quinn helps wipe away some of the tears from her face first before standing up, offering a hand to help Brittany up too. Brittany takes it and pulls herself up, blowing out a steady breath as she reaches into her hair and pulls it out of the bun. She begins to gather her blonde waves into a bunch and reties it again.

Her nose is pink and her eyes are swollen, clearly recognizable against her pale skin color. Quinn extends her hand out and captures Brittany's, establishing a tight but comforting hold.

"Santana is my best friend," Quinn says, "I'm stuck with her and she's stuck with me. Forever."

Brittany lifts her head up and peers into Quinn's honest eyes, truly believing that she means every single word she spoke.

"But you're Santana's soul mate," she follows, "And you don't_ have _to stay."

Brittany frowns, confused by Quinn's words, "What?"

"Don't you see?" Quinn asks with a shrug, "That's why Santana's so terrified that you might leave her one day. Because you can. You're not best friends, you're…lovers…you're a pairing…and the thing about you and Santana is that…there are only two ways you can exist with each other: you either need each other completely, on every single level someone can need another…or you don't need each other at all."

Brittany takes a deep breath, absorbing Quinn's words so that they become a part of her. She feels them travel through her veins to her heart and spread around that force inside her chest. She's never thought about it that way before, but now that Quinn brought it up, it makes sense. Santana and Brittany are best friends, but that's merely a small piece to what they truly are. In other words, to just say that they're best friends would be incorrect because they're so much more and so much different. They are two halves of a grand picture that is beautiful and complex and sophisticated. They are two bodies that join perfectly to form one entity. But just like Quinn explained, they cannot be half of what they are. They can't just share certain things and not others. Brittany and Santana must exist together fully, giving each other all the pieces or they must stay away entirely—because that grand picture can only be made if the two halves commit their lives to each other and that entity can only be formed if the two bodies fuse together on every level.

Santana will never need just a part of Brittany and Brittany will never need just a part of Santana. They will need everything or they will need nothing and as of now, Brittany finally understands why Santana has never stopped fearing a day where she would be left behind.

"I'm not going to leave her," Brittany says confidently, but with tears still blooming in her eyes.

"I know you won't," Quinn agrees, "But if Santana saw you run out like you just did…she'd spend the rest of her life worrying about what she did wrong."

"I don't want that," Brittany refuses, shaking her head.

"I know," Quinn acknowledges, but keeps her steady hold on Brittany, "But listen to me, here's what you're going to do. You're going to go home and you're going to shower and eat something and take care of yourself."

"No," Brittany objects immediately, attempting to free herself from Quinn's grip and walk back to Santana's room.

"Hey, hey," Quinn says, stopping her again, "Yes, you are. You're tired and you're a mess and you're scared. Santana is knocked out, and she will be for a while. They gave her strong stuff and she won't notice that you're gone."

"Quinn," Brittany says, "I'm not going—"

"Don't argue with me," Quinn interrupts, "I'm going to be here and you're going to take some time for yourself, just a little bit of time, and then you're going to come back and she'll be right here."

"What if something happens while I'm gone, I'd never…" she starts, finding it almost impossible to finish the sentence because of how terrifying it sounds, "What if she wakes up and I'm not there?"

"Then I'll tell her that you went home to freshen up and that you'll be back soon," Quinn answers, unwilling to let Brittany refuse her orders, "And I won't forget the part where you fought and fought and fought to stay but I was the mean one who told you to leave."

Brittany rolls her eyes and shifts her weight to one side, kicking a heel against the tiled floor. She contemplates whether or not she should listen to Quinn and go home. She hates the thought of leaving Santana, even though she's unconscious. In a way, it feels even worse to leave when she's not aware because Brittany doesn't want Santana to have to wake up and not find her there. Nonetheless, she is tired and dirty and dripping in the stench of fear and stress. It'd be nice to take a shower and change out of her clothes.

"Sound good?" Quinn probes, waiting for a response.

"Fine," Brittany complies, agreeing with the arrangement.

"Alright," Quinn adds and then extends her arms out, "Come here."

Brittany steps into Quinn's body to grant the embrace. Her arms wrap around her back and hold Quinn against her own body comfortably, soaking up the warmth that she has to give. While it feels different, the hug reminds Brittany of Santana and how much she misses holding her the way she holds Quinn.

"Santana's going to make it through this," Quinn murmurs softly against Brittany's ear, "She just needs to know that she'll have support in case she falls."

They break apart and Brittany nods, "She has to make it through this. Her life is my life. I don't have one if she doesn't."

With that, Brittany presses her lips together and brushes passed Quinn. She makes her way down the hallway, back to Santana's room, and Quinn's eyes follow her movement. When Brittany enters again, she notices that the room is still calm, thankfully, which means that nothing went seriously wrong while they were outside. She identifies Santana on the bed, unconscious but living which is all that matters. Brittany identifies the doctor first and walks to him.

"Is everything okay?" she asks.

"For now, yes," Dr. Sanders replies, "We've taken a blood test and we're about to perform a Transesophageal Echocardiogram, which is ideal for a patient who is unconscious. What we will do is visualize the heart from inside the esophagus by inserting a small, flexible tube with a probe down her throat. The sound waves and echoes received by the probe will generate images of her heart for us to look at."

"And she won't feel any of it?" Brittany asks.

"She's heavily sedated," Dr. Sanders explains, "She won't even be aware of it, but when she wakes up, she may have a sore throat. That should, however, clear up in a day or two."

"Okay," Brittany says, shifting to take another glance at Santana, "Thank you."

The nurses finished prepping her, which involved attaching electrodes to her chest, removing the pillow from her head and changing the angle of the bed so she's lying flat on her back. Brittany slowly walks passed the doctor and over to Santana. She bends down and places a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a few seconds.

"I love you," she whispers into Santana's ear before pulling away and leaving her side.

Brittany makes her way to the couch, and notices Quinn finally reentering the room as she picks up her bag and jacket. She starts towards the door and shares a look with Quinn, who touches her arm briefly.

"Call me if anything happens, please," Brittany tells Quinn seriously.

"I will," Quinn responds, offering a small smile of reassurance.

Brittany allows herself another glance over her shoulder at Santana, sending all her love towards that body, before finally exiting the room. She walks the other direction down the hallway to the elevators, fighting every urge to go running back. Brittany forbids herself to turn and look towards the room because it'll only make it harder to leave. Stepping into the elevator already goes against everything she wants to do but she still does it because Quinn is right: she needs to take care of herself for a little while. Santana is in good hands, though Brittany would always rather it be her hands, and she trusts that things will still be okay when she returns.

The elevator reaches the bottom and dings open. Brittany walks the remaining steps to the front entrance and pushes the door open, feeling the fresh air tackle her like a swarm. She breathes it into her body so the breeze can spread throughout her chest and stomach and arms and legs. She will admit that it feels so much better to be out of that sterile room and to hear traffic and birds instead of a beeping monitor.

The only thing missing from this moment is Santana's hand holding hers. Brittany wishes she could be walking out with her but instead, she is only reminded that she'll be coming back here in an hour or so. Then she stops that negative thought and tells herself that it won't be long before Santana _will _be leaving with her. In situations like these, optimism is useful and Brittany has so much of it embedded into her nature that she might as well rediscover it and exploit it for her benefit.

She calls out for a cab and waits until one finally slows and stops in front of her. Brittany steps in and gives the directions to her apartment. The buildings and city life speed past her window but she finds it somewhat therapeutic. She has spent the last 48 hours in a hospital room—white walls, sterility, tools, beeps—and to finally expose herself to a new series of colors and objects restores some of the peace that was stripped from her mind.

A number of different thoughts pass through her system, some good, some bad, some confusing and stressful, but then one pops up and she pauses to focus on it. Brittany expands the idea, leading her to reach into her bag and pull out her phone. She scrolls through her contacts and clicks on the person she had been looking for, bringing the phone to her ear.

She clears her throat and sniffs to make sure she doesn't sound too worrying for someone listening to her voice. Brittany waits a few rings, chewing on her lip, and then takes a deep breath when the other line picks up.

* * *

The soft sound of a laugh echoes around you, followed by another familiar voice. Darkness spills over your vision but you gradually begin to peel open your eyes and watch as the light seeps through. It takes several blinks before you can keep them open fully, but eventually the world restores and you confront the members of the room. You see Brittany, Quinn and Tina, sitting in chairs around your bed, but they have yet to notice that you're awake.

You swallow but find that your throat feels swollen and bruised. The way you winced and closed your eyes must have caused enough movement for the three to turn to you and see you have regained consciousness.

"Hey," Brittany says, her face lighting up as your eyes meet, "How are you feeling, babe?"

You immediately feel her warmth seep underneath your skin and comfort your entire body. You smile at her lazily, eyes glazing over with a mixture of fatigue and lust. When your lips part to give her an answer, you discover that your voice is gone. Something about your throat must be too dry and coarse for speech.

"Oh, oh, right," Brittany tells you, "Don't worry, you don't have to talk."

You frown at that comment because you want to know what happened while you were unconscious to make you lose your voice—or impair it, at least. Then another thought sparks and you remember the pain you had been in the last time you were awake. Impulsively, you draw your hand to your chest and flatten a palm against it. You feel around for the area, noticing that there's no burn or stinging at all.

"You're okay," Brittany says, reaching to your hand on your chest and bringing it back to the mattress with hers, "And Tina's here."

"Hey, you," Tina says from the other side where she sits beside Quinn.

She stands up from her seat and makes her way over to you. Once she's closer, you see that her eyes are slightly swollen as if she had been crying. Immediately, you wonder if she knows the truth. Before you can ask or find out more, she leans down and gives you an awkward hug. You frown at first and slowly raise one hand to pat her back gently. You share a look with Brittany who then nods softly, telling you that she and Quinn told Tina about what happened to you. In a way, you're grateful, because you weren't really up for telling it again so soon.

Tina pulls away and cups your face, "You are…amazing, you know that?"

You shake your head gently, blinking slowly as you press your lips together.

"And I heard about this morning too," she adds, "I'm sorry I wasn't here. Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," you manage to whisper, but it's barely audible.

You smile knowing Tina is here now, though, feeling her presence bring another pool of warmth into your chest—the good kind unlike what you had been feeling before. You nod as a response to her question, knowing better than to try and give her a verbal answer. She extends a hand towards you and grips your arm gently, offering a little squeeze along with a smile to show her affection. You spend a moment longer with Tina before finding Quinn and sending her a kind look. She responds in a typical Quinn way by pressing a small smile to you, which is enough.

In the end, you're back at Brittany. Now that you pay more attention to her, you realize she seems different from the last time you saw her. Brittany's hair looks fresh and golden as the waves flow passed her shoulders. Her outfit is different too. She must have gone home, which makes you envious because you'd give anything to go home right now. She looks beautiful, though, not that you've ever felt otherwise, but it almost paints a whole new world for you to live in and it even refreshes you to some extent. While you feel stale and dirty on the outside, your mind is slowly clearing up because the sight of Brittany is like restoring beauty in a world that has been nothing but darkness and pain for a long time.

You tilt your chin up and part your lips, hoping you might be able to squeeze these next few words out. Brittany realizes you want to tell her something so she leans in a little closer to catch it.

"You…look really pretty," you manage to say in a gentle murmur.

A smile spreads across her lips quicker than you can process, but it still fills your stomach with a nervous yet satisfying flutter. She blushes, warming your heart, and shakes her head bashfully. You're too lazy to give her the same kind of smile but in a way, your eyes capture that same intensity. You admire her, taking in a deep breath as if you suddenly need more air than just the average now, as if she is taking it away from you and you have to keep replacing it.

"Ugh I can't watch this," Quinn says dramatically, standing up from her seat, "Tina let's find some food."

Brittany lowers her head to the mattress and stays hidden out of embarrassment. You reach out and place a hand on her head, stroking her hair gently before turning to the other two. Tina laughs and winks at you, standing up to join Quinn who is giving you a playful glare.

"Wait," you say, straining your voice so that they can hear you.

Brittany lifts up when she hears your cracked voice, checking to make sure you're okay.

"Can you get me…some water?" you ask them.

"Of course, we'll be right back," Tina says before stepping out into the hallway.

Once they're gone, you direct your attention back to Brittany. She breathes in heavily, still with a leftover smile and blush from earlier. Now that you think of it, the air and the room and the environment feels less tense, less burdened with bad news. You aren't quite sure what happened while you were out, but it feels as though things have improved since the last time you were awake. You have a slight headache, but nothing compared to the pain you were experiencing. Everything feels a little lighter and you haven't figured out why just yet. For now, you don't let it bother you too much. There are more important things to focus on, like her.

"Hi," you hum.

She smiles, "Hi. Are you okay?"

"I'm good," you answer, finding it strange to listen to those words leave your lips.

"You were in a lot of pain," Brittany reminds you, reaching to stroke some of your hair lovingly, "They gave you stuff to relieve it, but that was about four hours ago…so tell me if anything starts to hurt again."

"Right," you say, remembering how the doctor held you down and injected morphine into you.

Suddenly it hits you. It must not have worn off yet. It would explain why everything feels relaxed and less chaotic. You're surprised they even gave you something what with the reason you're in here and all. For all they know, you're some junkie who overdosed on cocaine. Sometimes you forget that nobody else besides Brittany, Quinn and Tina knows why you were on drugs and you realize that they must think you're scum. At least, undeserving of such affection that the three girls express towards you. You're not sure if that will change, if you even want anybody other than these three to know what really happened. All you know is that you're okay now. You still have a chance.

When you shift your attention back to Brittany, you remember how broken she looked before when you were telling Quinn. Every curve of her frown replays in your head, blocking you from seeing the current version of her. You lift a weak hand up and place it against the side of her face. She joins her palm to the back of your hand and leans into your touch.

"I'm sorry," you apologize.

"Stop saying that," she pleads.

You swallow, regretting it moments later when the sore muscles contract.

"I'm sorry you had to hear it again," you explain.

She takes a deep breath once she understands what you are referring to. Her face falls and her eyes temporarily shift away from yours. She searches a space that is at a lower level than your eyes and you can practically hear the gears turning in her head.

"I shouldn't have made you stay," you add.

Brittany shakes her head and peers up again, "No, Santana, don't worry about me, please."

"You know I can't do that," you say.

"Of course I didn't want to hear it again," Brittany admits, "But I'll make myself hear it as many times as you need me to if that's what will help you."

"Why would…" you start to ask, "Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Brittany answers, shrugging casually, "Once you give your heart to someone, you can't just take it back when things get hard."

The moment the words process inside your head, your chest expands to make room for your growing heart. More warmth—the good kind—explodes from your core to the rest of your body, reaching even the smallest places like the tips of your toes and fingers. How does she come up with the perfect combination of things to say and say them to you with a kind of passion that you aren't sure you can explain? You take a deep, steadying breath and feel the corners of your lips begin to curve.

"So I've got your heart?" you say with a faint smirk.

Brittany rolls her eyes and chuckles, "My heart…"

She leans in to place a kiss on your forehead, "And my forehead…"

She shifts down and places a kiss on your cheek, "And my cheeks."

You smile when you realize what she's doing.

Brittany leans in further and kisses the tip of your ear, "And my ears."

She comes back and drops a kiss on your nose, "And my nose."

She pulls away to look into your eyes, your smiling eyes, and pauses. Her gaze drops down to your lips and she slowly begins to lean in to close the remaining distance. Brittany places the gentlest kiss on your lips and lingers against you for several seconds. You feel your lips spark and tingle and then those tingles spread as they start to travel to other parts of you. When she pulls away, you let your eyes flutter open to find hers still contently closed.

"And your lips," you breathe out, watching her eyes peel open to meet yours.

She releases the air she had been holding in and blinks lustfully, reclaiming the words you had stolen from her, "And my lips."

Her eyes burn into yours passionately and remind you of your whole life with Brittany. She looks at you the same way she always has, which you find more than comforting, because a lot has changed since high school. It soothes you to know that some things will always be the same—if they're the right kind of thing. Right now, you stare into her eyes and it almost feels like you're sixteen again and realizing for the first time what those strange feelings you had always felt for Brittany really were.

"Are we interrupting?" Tina's voice comes in from the door.

Brittany spends a second longer in your eyes before sighing and turning around, waving a hand for them to come in.

"San, the doctor is just outside," Quinn informs you, "He's about to come in and talk."

You nod, feeling the situation grow a little heavier than it had just been. Brittany notices the way your face fell and takes your hands in hers, securing it tightly. She brings the back of your hand to her lips and kisses it softly before mouthing an "I love you". Quinn and Tina reclaim their seats, Tina with the bottle of water in her hand that you're suddenly craving. Just as your about to ask, the doctor comes in and you're silenced.

"Hi there," he greets, walking in with his hands in his coat pockets, "How do you feel?"

"Good," you answer in a scratchy voice, "But…uh…my throat really hurts."

"Oh, right," he remembers, "We performed a Transesophageal Echocardiogram while you were unconscious."

"A what?" you repeat dumbly.

"It's the same as the echocardiogram I mentioned before, except it involves inserting a small, thin, probe down your throat," Dr. Sanders explains.

Instinctively, your free hand reaches up to your throat and rubs it.

"It is very common that patients develop a sore throat afterwards," he adds, "But it should fade within a day or two."

You nod cooperatively, drawing your hand away and back down to rest against the mattress.

"So what were the results?" Quinn asks.

"Right," Dr. Sanders says.

He steps out of his stance and makes his way towards the machine in the corner of the room. He pulls it over to an angle where everyone can see and turns it on.

"We recorded the images received from the echocardiogram, and what you will see in just a second," he says, "…is Ms. Lopez's heart in motion."

The screen finally shows up and runs a loop of recordings, which took a while to recognize but became clear once he began to point out the sections. It looks exactly like an ultrasound except instead of a fetus, it's your heart. Dr. Sanders points to the lining of muscle on the left side of your heart on the screen and explains the observations.

"Notice how this left lining of muscle is working at a much slower rate than the other half, indicating a decrease in function," he explains, before describing the abnormality of the motion, "And notice how it is contracting unevenly. This is due to the fact that the left half of your heart is inflamed."

"Inflamed," you repeat, making it clear for yourself.

"The blood tests we gathered and the recordings of your heartbeat indicate the same symptoms," he reveals, "And, Ms. Lopez, what you've developed is a case of Myocarditis—the inflammation of the heart muscle—which would explain the heart burns and the fever."

"How did she get it?" Quinn asks inquiringly.

Dr. Sanders steps away from the monitor and pauses, forming his next words carefully, "Well…it is most commonly the result of a viral infection. However, since we are aware of Ms. Lopez's recent history with drugs, particularly cocaine, it is most likely that it was developed from a toxic reaction."

You stop listening, for now, and stare into the space ahead. You're not sure if he's still talking, if anyone is, but it's quiet in your world. You try to keep breathing normally and stay calm and conscious. It just makes you mad and upset and disappointed all at the same time to know that you were stupid enough to get yourself hooked on cocaine. People do it all the time, especially where you work, and yet they're still alive and walking around. But that's how it works, isn't it? Nobody ever thinks they're going to be one of the unlucky ones. It never really concerns you until it becomes the deciding factor on whether you live or die.

"San," Brittany says, gently shaking your hand to pull you back to the conversation.

"Hm," you hum confusedly and turn to face Brittany, "Sorry…what?"

She nods towards the doctor so you shift and focus on him again.

"Yours is an acute case and since it is a toxic reaction, rather than viral, it can be treated with antibiotics and prescribed medicines to reduce the inflammations and other side effects such as fevers and headaches," he explains, "Also, seeing as though no damage has been done to the inner lining of your heart, we will not have to perform surgery."

"No surgery?" Quinn repeats, making sure she heard correctly.

"No surgery," Dr. Sanders assures, "I apologize for the false observations I had made earlier."

The room sighs collectively, except you.

"So…" you begin, feeling your stomach bubble, "You were going to cut me open…and find out that you didn't need to at all."

The doctor clears his throat nervously, finding the eyes of the other members of the room slowly staring him down, "While your heart did show signs of serious damage, we should have looked further into the details before we suggested surgery. Again, we apologize for the fault on our part."

It doesn't make sense to you. They were ready to perform heart surgery on you for something that can be treated with antibiotics. Had they just assumed what the problem was before even evaluating it? Just as you're about to lunge forward and make another point, Brittany shifts onto the bed and keeps you restrained while Quinn and Tina finish the conversation with the doctor elsewhere.

"Santana, baby," Brittany hushes, "Look at me…hey…hey…calm down."

Your breathing escalates and the monitor starts to beep a little faster. You start to feel a little lightheaded and weak, probably the result of using too much energy that you don't even have. Brittany wraps her arms around you as you slowly begin to fade and lose strength. She guides you back down to the bed safely and you sink into the pillow.

"You're too feisty for your own good," she whispers as she removes her hands from underneath you.

You watch her smile at you from above, the comment and her grin combining to make you chuckle softly. Quinn and Tina return to you moments later once you've relaxed again.

"He said that they'll start you on antibiotics and keep you here until the end of tomorrow," Quinn reports to you, "But after that, if the medications work, you can be discharged and start treating yourself from home."

"I can go home?" you say, picking up the only important part of that sentence you understood.

"We can go home," Quinn confirms, smiling warmly at you.

You close your eyes and sink further into the pillow, feeling the softness wrap around your head like a warm embrace. It's the best news you've heard in all of the two days you've been here.

"San," Brittany says timidly, in a tone that worries you.

You open your eyes again and wait for her to continue what she was saying. She shares a look with Quinn and Tina who come to sit down on the edge of the bed beside you. They're making you nervous all of a sudden.

"While you've been in here," she starts, "Quinn and Tina have been deciding between rehabilitation programs for you."

Rehab? Those are for addicts. You're not an addict. You're not.

You slowly push yourself up the mattress so you're sitting more properly. You glance back and forth nervously between the three of them, suddenly feeling like you're being ambushed into an intervention. They notice that you're starting to grow increasingly anxious. Being hooked up to a heart monitor really does not help you hide emotions, not when the beeping sets off and reveals whenever you're panicking or frightened.

"I'm…not addicted," you say quickly, refusing to let them think you are.

"Santana," Quinn says calmly, "You…took enough to get you hospitalized."

"But I'm not an addict," you argue, feeling your system slowly igniting.

The worst part about this is that you think you're right but all the evidence is against you. If you weren't an addict, you wouldn't have taken the measures you took to get your hands on a pack of blow. If you weren't an addict, the nosebleeds wouldn't have started. I you weren't an addict, you would have gone home after talking to Sam that night and crashed onto your bed and slept. If you weren't an addict, you wouldn't be here right now, yet you still want to believe that you don't belong to that label. The thought of rehab terrifies you because you're required to stay there, right? They make you stay there, locked up, you can't leave. No, you can't be put in that kind of environment. You'd lose it.

"Guys," you whimper, feeling tears build up behind your eyes, "I…I can stop…I don't want to do it anymore."

You feel vulnerable, with fear creeping along your skin like creatures.

"Santana, we can't...risk it," Brittany says softly, brushing a stand of loose hair from your face.

"Brittany," you plead, turning to her, "B, you know me…you know I'll stop."

She bites into her bottom lip as her eyes become glossy and her frown deepens in sadness. You're making this so hard for her, you know it, but that's what you're trying to do. While you feel horrible about it, you're trying to use your relationship with Brittany to get her to believe you, to shift to your side. The truth is, you really do believe you can quit and you're trying to get them to see that, but then again, who believes a potential addict when they say they aren't addicted.

"I need you to get better," she explains, holding you tightly.

"Please," you beg, shaking your head and pouring your heart out into your gaze.

She searches you deeply, assessing your honesty, and because you're actually being honest—because you do believe you can stop the drugs—she believes you. Brittany turns to Quinn and gives her a look.

"Maybe we could see how it goes," she offers, "Maybe we won't have to send her."

"Brittany," Quinn says harshly, disappointed that she fell through.

"Quinn," you say, turning to her, "Q, please…I promise. I-I know what I've done, okay? I-I know the damage. Please don't send me away."

Quinn's eyes narrow and study you, your sincerity. You mean it. You plan to quit that whole lifestyle you've been leading for a while now. She bounces the idea around, knowing that she shouldn't let you have your way so easily but feeling like you really do mean what you're saying. And plus, you don't think any of them want you sent away. In fact, they probably hate the fact as much as you do.

"Maybe we can…discuss the options later," Quinn says, finally giving in, "But you have to go to therapy, Santana. For the drugs and for the…"

She pauses, stumbling before she is supposed to say the word. You freeze too, realizing that it could be the first time you hear it out loud. The room falls quiet, everybody awaiting what there is to come. You hold you breath for her keep going, to finish the sentence, to say it, but she never does.

"You still need the help, Santana," Quinn says, changing it around.

"I know," you admit, "I'll go to therapy, I'll do that."

"Okay," Quinn approves, knowing that at least she can get you on board with that first.

You release the anxious air from inside you and breathe out slowly in relief, sinking back to the pillow. Brittany lets go of your hand and runs those fingers through her hair. You miss the warmth and turn to face her, worried that she may be upset that you forced her into advocating for you. When she's finished with her hair, though, she immediately rejoins her hand with yours and it settles your worries.

"Santana?" Tina says timidly and waits until you turn to her, "Do you...remember what happened?"

"Tina," Quinn scolds.

Brittany and Quinn snap back and warn Tina with a glare for having brought it up. For the first time, though, you don't feel so terribly traumatized by the mention of it. While you're still scared to think about what happened and to remember the details of it, you're slowly beginning to feel yourself open up to the possibility of talking about it. Now? Maybe not as much, but this feeling is one to watch. You think it's going to spread and really make a difference soon.

"I…uh…." you start to say in attempt to answer Tina's question.

"Santana," Brittany says, twisting back, "You don't have to answer that."

"I'm sorry, San," Tina apologizes, "Really, you don't have to answer that…I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's…it's okay," you admit, feeling the potential inside you growing.

"Don't answer it," she says again softly.

"I do…" you confess anyway, your chest compressing and causing light discomfort, "I can't…not…remember it sometimes."

"Tina," Quinn says harshly, "Let's have a chat outside."

"Santana, I'm really sorry," Tina says again, standing up and letting Quinn take her out of the room, away from you.

You're not offended by Tina or what she said. You understand that they have questions for you, it only makes sense. Brittany and Quinn must be filled with them, but perhaps they're better at controlling the need to fire them at you. Also, Quinn and Brittany are the ones you told in person, where they could see every tremble and quiver that struck you as the words left your lips. Tina only heard about it, so it makes sense for her to be more reckless with the information.

"Are you okay?" Brittany asks worriedly once the other two leave the room.

"I'm okay," you answer, nodding to confirm it.

She smiles weakly at you, but it is still comforting. You feel the need to talk to her about the discussion earlier, now that you two are alone.

"Britt," you begin, aiming to explain yourself, "I don't...want to go to rehab."

She sighs, "I know...and I don't want you to go either, but Santana-"

"I can't...be away from you," you interrupt, "Or Quinn or Tina. I can't be locked up like that...alone...please...don't let it happen."

"You know I'd never do something that isn't in your best interest," Brittany reminds you.

"So please," you beg, "Don't do this."

She stares into you deeply, eyes burning through yours harshly. Brittany sighs and nods eventually, giving into the fact that she'd never put you in a position that you weren't comfortable with.

"I promise I'll find another way to get the same kind of help then," she says, making it her mission.

You breathe out in relief, knowing that once Brittany uses that word, she means it. Even though you made it more difficult than it had to be, you're thankful that someone is going to look out for you. Right now, the thought of being sent away to rehab scares the hell out of you. Brittany can see how terrified you are of that becoming your fate and she couldn't bear to let it happen.

"If you promise," she continues, "...to always try even when it gets hard...because it will, Santana."

"I promise," you answer immediately, without a doubt, "B...I promise."

"Okay," she says, and leans in for an embrace.

You push yourself off the bed and let her arms wrap around your back. She holds you securely, offering you protection and warmth which are two things you're always needing. One of your hands sneaks into her hair and grips it, keeping you close to each other. You breathe her in, smelling the familiar scent of her shampoo.

As you continue to hold her, you realize how much you need this body, this person, this girl, Brittany, and how easily she is able to make you feel like home isn't a place or a thing but the connection between the two of you. Brittany has always been the one person you needed and the one person who could always help you find the right path, find the right you. She never fails you.

"Brittany," you start, taking a deep breath, "Will you stay...with me?"

It takes her a moment to figure out what you're talking about but eventually she pulls away and meets your eyes. Your hands drop from her neck to your lap, not because you wanted to actually but because you didn't have enough strength to keep them there. She tilts her head to the side and blinks slowly. When you ask this, you're not asking about now, or tomorrow. You're asking about something much longer than a few days. You're asking if Brittany has decided that you're it, the two of you, you and her, Brittany and Santana.

"I don't belong anywhere else," she confirms, shrugging to emphasize the simplicity of her answer, that it's as easy as that.

You smile softly at her response and sigh in content, feeling her words build a lifetime of promises inside you.

"Um Santana," Quinn's voice returns to the room.

You poke your head out to see passed Brittany but freeze when you notice who is standing beside Quinn.

"Look who I found," she says, smiling nervously.

"Ay, mi amor, ¿qué te pasó?" the woman says worriedly in your native language when she sees you and makes her way over.

"Mom?" you cough out in shock, feeling an anxious tingle rip through your stomach.

* * *

**A/N: Gosh, again, you're all such saints for sticking around. I'm sorry about the lateness of this update. I hope you enjoyed it though. The last section is supposed to feel a little weird because Santana is supposedly still high on morphine. On the bright side, it should feel like things will pick up from here! PLUS, Mama Lopez has arrived and that will be interesting. **

**I'll see you soon! And I'll try to be better. If there are any questions on this chapter, let me know!**

BTW: "Ay, mi amor, ¿qué te pasó?" means "What happened to you?" and the _mi amor (my love) _bit just adds the motherly touch.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14:** **Mama **

Your heart thumps around your chest like loud footsteps against an old, wooden floor. The echoes close in on you—surround you, haunt you—but there are neither corners nor shadows to hide in. She approaches you quickly, wide-eyed and worried, but you are too busy caught between shock and confusion. The two do not work well together but instead clash like perfect opposites, hindering your ability to make sense of what is in front of you. As your mother gains proximity, Brittany loses it: she releases your hand and stands up to make way. You wish she hadn't been so quick to let go.

"Are you okay, mi'ja?" your mother asks again, reaching the side of your bed and forcing you to pay attention.

She waits for a response but you have yet to muster up the courage to speak to her. With that said, you are not entirely sure whether_ that_ is the problem here. Are you afraid or are you just speechless? These are the thoughts you need to sort out before you can have a civilized conversation with her, but thankfully, someone else comes to the rescue.

"Oh, um, Santana has a…" Quinn interrupts, obviously pausing to think of a valid explanation, "…a sore throat."

Your mom spends little to no time listening to Quinn. Once she has heard enough, she returns to you and extends a hand to your hair, tucking one or two wild strands behind your ear. It is the same affectionate gesture that you would expect from most mothers, but she is not 'most mothers' and this comes as a surprise to you; so much, that the last thirty seconds replay in your head like a film on a loop. You wait for something to happen, for something to knock you back into reality, like a pinch or a slap to the face. You find it bizarre because you haven't thought about your mother in a while let alone contacted her. If you were to put a number to it; it's been almost six months now, give or take.

She pulls back and takes your hand between both of hers, squeezing tightly. Your eyes are bold, driven not by power but by shock, and breathing patterns uneven. The monitor beeps faster just beyond your conscious, but you try to ignore the sound and focus on accepting the reality. She pats the back of your hand a couple of times, eyes scanning the details of your complexion.

"You look so pale," she says worriedly, but it seems so out of character that you _have_ to question her sincerity.

"Mom…" you huff, fumbling around with the words on your tongue, "Wha-what are you doing here?"

She frowns again, but this time it is followed with a look over her shoulder to Brittany. You track the glare and end up in the same place; confronting Brittany's nervous composure. You quickly switch to observe Quinn and Tina who seem just as confused and lost as you are. The mystified look they send towards Brittany and your mother is enough to say they probably know as much as you do about the situation. Their parted lips and loose jaws confirm it more than words could, but that still leaves Brittany. She stands as an outcast from them and you're beginning to wonder if she had something to do with this. The questions continue to fire in your head but only bounce around unanswered for as long as silence poisons the room. After steady breaths, in and out, Brittany eventually steps forward as if to confess something. The writhing bundle of nerves in your stomach explodes, sending an uncomfortable shiver into the rest of your system.

"I called her," she suddenly reveals.

Your mind blanks as if you had seen her mouth shape the words but watched as it failed to elicit any sound. Brittany's eyes remain cautious as you struggle to make sense of her unexpected confession. It isn't that you don't understand what she said, because you clearly do, but it is more that you can't piece together an explanation for why those words even left her lips to begin with. Your mother's presence here, in general, is a brain twister but to put Brittany behind this just throws you off balance altogether.

"What?" you react.

The room falls silent when the gaze between you and Brittany intensifies. Looking into her eyes does not help to clear up the confusion, quite surprisingly. Instead, it feels like she is telling two stories at the same time—one with her eyes, where she is apologizing over and over, and one with the rest of her body, where she remains stern and unyielding. That is what always throws you off about Brittany: she never really seems out of control. She always has a firm grip on reality and on her own decisions, her own intentions. You admire that about her, more than anything, because it is a skill that would have saved you a lot of pain and trouble had you been fortunate enough to master it.

"Santana…I…" she begins slowly, approaching you.

"Um, we're just gonna…let you guys talk…" Quinn interrupts, looping her arm through Tina's and leading her out.

Before you can object or ask them to stay, they reach the door and walk out. You didn't want them to leave, but you understand why they did. Unfortunately, that is about the only thing you understand right now because you sure as hell can't put the pieces of _this_ puzzle together. You draw your attention back to the other two members of the room, starting with Brittany. Your eyes burn into hers again but she shrugs helplessly, as if this too is something unexpected for her.

"I'm sorry, San," she says, "But I…I didn't…it isn't exactly how it seems."

"Why?" you say vaguely before defining the question again, "I mean, I don't…understand. Why did you call my mother?"

"Soy tú mamá, Santana," you mother interjects, "Why didn't you call me yourself?"

"Are you serious?" you reply, frowning angrily as you turn to her, "What in god's name has you thinking I would call you?"

"Santana, ten cuidado con lo que dices," she scolds you, but it only infuriates you more.

"I'll say whatever I want to say," you retort.

"Not when you're talking to me," she says back, sending you the harsh tone you remember as a child.

"Well forgive me if I'm little rough around the edges," you tell her distastefully, narrowed eyes and all, "It's hard to keep track after six months."

She pulls back, lips slowly closing as soon as she realizes she can't argue with you anymore—not without walking right into a trap. She clears her throat and distances herself which, to your surprise, hurts more than you want it too. You didn't think you had any fresh feelings about this conflict in your life; the one between you and your parents. You assumed you had simply let it go, or become insensitive, but you were wrong. The same applies to many: we think we have grown and it starts to feel like we have put whatever troubles behind us and let the pain dissolve only to realize it is only a delusion. A misconception, leading us to believe we have moved on when really all we have done is move farther away from what scares us. They are not the same because one of them means we have healed while the other one simply means we continue to cover up our recurring wounds with bandages.

You massage the bridge of your nose gently, trying to ease the headache you feel coming on.

"Are you okay?" Brittany asks worriedly, noticing your gesture.

"Fine," you say, harsher than you had wanted but at this point you are less careful about what you are saying and more focused on what is unfolding right in front of you, "I just don't…understand."

"What is there to understand?" your mother asks.

"No you're right, _mom_," you say bitterly, staring wildly at her, "After six months of hearing absolutely nothing from you or Dad, I should be completely thrilled that you came."

"Santana," Brittany says quietly, trying to calm you down.

"Did you know that, Brittany?" you ask heatedly, "Did she tell you that before you decided to call her up and drag her back into my life?"

Brittany swallows and winces at your tone of voice.

"Don't yell at her," your mother interrupts, "This isn't Brittany's fault."

You frown, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

"She didn't tell me to come to New York, that was my decision," she explains slowly, "Brittany only called me because it is what I asked of her."

Brittany takes a deep breath and turns around, her hands reaching up to her head with her fingers diving anxiously into her hair. Her back faces you as she takes a moment for herself and all you can do is sit in complete and utter bewilderment. It takes a while before you realize Brittany has been keeping something from you but you don't know what or how long she's kept it. At this point, you can't tell if you are angry or upset or just confused with her. So she didn't tell your mom to get on a plane and fly miles and miles to come and see you?

"What are you…talking about?" you ask.

Your mother sighs and looks at Brittany, which you assume means that she is giving her a chance to explain.

"Brittany?" you say slowly, "What is she talking about?"

Brittany turns around and sends a look that makes your stomach shift disturbingly. Her eyes quickly snap to watch your mother as she begins to stand up from the chair beside your bed. You can hear her shuffle out of the seat as you turn to look at her as well, eyeing the woman with a puzzled glare.

"I think there are some things that you two need to…discuss first," she says, voluntarily removing herself from the room so that you and Brittany can talk alone.

Still you frown as she walks to the door and stops by Brittany to briefly touch her arm with a gentle smile. As if things weren't already so confusing.

"What's going on?" you ask firmly, once the room is yours and hers again, "What did she ask you to do?"

Brittany breathes out steadily and takes the remaining steps towards you. She reaches the chair beside your bed and sits down in it, sliding a few more fingers through her long hair before she begins. You beg yourself not to lose strength and fall into those waves the way you always do. Fortunately, her lips part and you anticipate her voice.

"Santana," she starts slowly, "You know that I came to New York for school and work. You also know that I came here for you…because I want to be with you, more than anything."

You swallow hardly, finding it incredibly difficult to stay in one piece when she's saying all the right things to tug your walls back down again.

"Before I left, I went to see your mother," she explains, "And…by then, I had already known a little bit about you from Quinn and Tina…the whole dropping out of school situation…but until your mom told me she hadn't heard from you in months, I had no idea about that. I just assumed you two were in contact. Anyways, I told her I was going to New York and she asked me to do her a favor and that was to…keep an eye out for you and then…"

She pauses and inhales deeply, clenching her jaw shut tightly. You tilt your head to the side, waiting for her to continue.

"Then…?" you say softly.

"And then to let her know how you're doing every once in a while," Brittany confesses, watching you carefully.

Your lips part to respond but only a warm breath of air floats out. You blink a few times before moving your eyes off of Brittany and into space, frowning as the words still take time to process. Brittany has been in contact with your mom? About you?

"Wait," you say suddenly, "Wait…so you've been…you and my mom…you've been talking about me?"

"No," she objects quickly, scooting closer, "No, it's not like that. Santana, I've only been in New York for two and a half weeks, I—"

"Everything I told you," you say, feeling the disappointment churn in your stomach, "Everything I've talked to you about…has just…bounced off of you to my mother?"

"That's not true," she defends, eyes begging you to listen, "Santana, what I meant was…she asked me to do that favor but I haven't done so well with it at all. I only called her one time and that was last night. I called her and told her you were in the hospital because I thought that was the kind of thing she would expect me to tell her had I known."

You let out a deep breath from all the information you just received, trying to put it all together so it makes some kind of sense.

"I'm sorry, Santana," she apologizes, but that is not what you wanted to hear, "I just…felt like…"

"Like what?" you interrupt, "Why would you go behind my back?"

"It wasn't like that," she says quickly, coming forward towards your bed.

"I mean, you didn't…tell me right?" you ask, doubting yourself, "Unless…did you? Did I forget somehow?"

"No, I…" she admits slowly, "I didn't tell you."

You nod, "Right."

"Santana," she struggles, "Everything that you have told me about yourself has stayed with me. Your mother doesn't know anything except that you're in the hospital."

"Why didn't you just tell me that my mom wanted to know how I was doing?" you ask.

"Because she specifically told me that she wanted this to stay between me and her," Brittany explains, "Because she…feels horrible about the last six months and knows you probably resent her."

"I don't _resent_ her," you correct her immediately, "I'm just…I just don't understand her. She shows up here after all this time like we never stopped communicating. But she cut me off, Brittany. She and my dad; they both just cut me off like I was some useless string dangling from their very important lives. They assumed that I quit college for the hell of it, but I didn't do that. You know I didn't."

You lower your eyes away from hers, a warm pool of shame bursting in your stomach. You hate that your mother used Brittany to get to you and you hate that Brittany agreed to the favor. It doesn't make sense; Brittany has always been honest with you. In a choice between hiding something from you, even for your own good, or telling you the truth, she would probably choose the latter because that is the kind of person she is and always has been. Most of all, though, you hate that this is reviving the feelings you hoped were dead and gone. You are beginning to wonder whether feelings ever really fade away; whether the moment we feel something is the moment we turn that feeling into something eternal, something that will coexist with us until the end, perhaps out of sight and out of mind but very much hidden in the deepest holes of our conscious. That maybe our feelings are merely extensions of own spirit and once they stop being felt so much, they become ghosts, ghosts that we once held close, ghosts that we once knew.

"But I can't tell her the truth," you say suddenly, realizing again the entirety of your mother's presence here and what it means.

"San…" Brittany says quietly, "You don't have to."

"Right, yeah, and how am I supposed to explain this then?" you ask bitterly.

Brittany presses her lips together tightly at your question. She doesn't know how to respond. You sink back to the bed, resting your head on the pillow to take in steady breaths.

"I can't…tell her, Brittany," you confess, still avoiding a direct stare, "I know I told you and Quinn already but I'm not…ready for her. She's my mother. She'd die if she knew."

"Hey," Brittany murmurs, "Nobody is asking you to tell your mom what happened. You tell her whatever you want to tell her and we'll support you with it, we'll go along with it."

"I know," you admit, finally mustering the courage to look into her eyes again, "I just wish I didn't have to deal with this right now."

The honesty hits her a little too deep and it is written all over her face now. She is definitely sorry about the decision she made but you aren't mad at her. Maybe you raised your voice at her a few times but you understand now that it was only out of confusion and frustration from lacking the knowledge of the situation at hand. Brittany knows how you feel about being the one person left in the dark; she knows how you feel about trust and keeping secrets even more. Those were the things she used to know about you back in high school at least. She was very good at remembering specific details; you really loved that about her.

"I shouldn't have kept it from you, I know," she finally answers, "…but I promise you that I had no idea she was going to fly here. If I did, I wouldn't have done it or I would have at least told you about her."

"It's fine, B," you assure her, "I believe you."

Your eyes drop to focus on Brittany's hand on the bed a few inches away from yours. Without giving it much thought, you stretch your fingertips to the back of her hand and stroke the skin. You watch the gentle, yet caged, smile form on her lips. She feels guilty now, but you weren't trying to make her feel bad. If anything, you were hoping you could comfort her and ease her worries by saying you believed her. The only issue with this situation right now is that while you aren't angry with Brittany, you can't avoid the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach; the kind you often get when you feel betrayed or lied to. The other thing is that Brittany is and always has been different from everybody else. You have always treated her differently and you have always felt for her differently, meaning that whatever a random person does to you is not handled the same way it would had that person been Brittany. Everything is more important with her, more severe. You decide to remind her of that.

"Brittany," you start, keeping your tone serious, "I'm so…in love with you…I think I always will be."

"Santana," she says slowly.

"Let me finish," you say before continuing, "But I need you to stay honest with me about everything. I can take betrayal, not that I think this is betrayal, but figuratively speaking, I can take betrayal from other people but I can't…I really just can't…from you."

The look on Brittany's face splits your heart down the middle. You hear the words replay and realize how hard they must have been to hear on her end of the conversation. All Brittany has ever done has been to prove her commitment to you and it breaks her heart to now be accused of betrayal; you can see it in her eyes more than anything. She finally pulls away from the stare and removes her hand from your grip. She frowns and places her hands on her thighs, breathing nervously.

"I…" she tries to say, lips parting but words fumbling, "Uh..m..."

"Brittany, I know you never mean to hurt me," you assure her, missing the warmth of her touch, "I know that, trust me. I just…I just need you to know that I can easily brush off the shit people do to me but when it comes to you, everything matters. My mother lying to me is one thing but you lying to me is something entirely different, do you understand?"

She nods with her face hidden and head lowered, picking at her nails out of guilt. You aren't actually trying to make her feel bad—you really aren't—but then again this _is _Brittany and, from what you can remember, she has never dealt well with being the one to cause you harm, which makes you all the more curious about why she agreed in the first place.

"What I don't really understand is why you did it?" you explain, expressing the thought that has put an itch at the corner of your brain for some time now.

Her head lifts slowly, eyes peering up at you as if she was waiting for you to ask that question.

"You knew it meant keeping something from me," you wonder suspiciously, "Why did you agree to it at all?"

Brittany inhales deeply and parts her lips, ready but nervous to respond. Before she can spit out the first word, another voice barges into your conversation; the one you were hoping you wouldn't have to hear for a while.

"Santana Maria Lopez!" your mother exclaims, walking in furiously, "Drugs!? ¡No lo puedo creer!"

You shift backwards on your bed, scared that she'll come and slap you. Brittany turns around quickly and stands up beside the bed, ready to shield you from any danger. Quinn and Tina run in quickly afterwards.

"Santana," Quinn rushes in, "I'm sorry, she…we didn't realize she was talking to the doctor."

Quinn fumbles together an excuse but it slips your mind because your mother starts to pace in the space in front of your bed, throwing her hands up violently.

"How could you do this?" she asks angrily, "Here I was thinking you had some sort of accident but that isn't the case at all, is it? What were you thinking, Santana?"

"Mom," you say, "Wait, calm down—"

"First you drop out of college and then you do drugs," your mother continues, speaking over you harshly, "Remember Tio Manuel! Y Tia Selena! Remember what happened to them! Do you want to end up like them?"

"They were drug dealers, Mamá," you say timidly, "I'm not a drug dealer."

Brittany glances down at you and realizes exactly why you were so worked up about your mother being here. Quinn and Tina stand in the corner, biting their fingernails and fidgeting anxiously. Your mother coming to see you meant your mother finding out about the drugs. Your mother coming to see you also means potentially having to tell her what happened to you.

"¿Cómo sucedió esto? ¿Qué hago mal?" your mother rants in Spanish, dramatically tossing around rhetorical questions before stopping and turning to scold you again, "Eres una niña tan difícil, siempre eras."

The sting in your chest burns sharper than you expected it to. She always called you a difficult child, even in high school when things weren't so bad, yet the pain rings a loud and harsh bell in your body's memory. You have always been just a little bit of a disappointment, regardless of how often your mother said you didn't have to be anyone you didn't want to be. You always felt that she was only using that to sound like a good mom because if she really meant it, she wouldn't have been so quick to judge you when you quit college.

"I don't even know what to say to you, Santana!" she continues relentlessly.

"Stop," you say, but so quietly that it flew right past her.

"I expected so much more for your future than this," she adds.

"Mamá," you say, this time loud enough that she stops to look at you.

She stands there, shaking her head in disbelief. You look away moments later because you can't bear the glare she forces on you. Finally, she sighs and approaches the empty side of your bed, sitting down in the chair. She allows a moment to collect herself before leaning in to address you again.

"Santana, what is going on with you?" she asks, pleading for some kind of acceptable explanation for this behavior she has just been informed of, "Why must you throw your life away like this?"

You still look away from her knowing you aren't strong enough to see the disappointment in her eyes. If she knew the truth, she'd understand. If she knew that you do have an explanation for it, she wouldn't be accusing you like this. The truth is that you could make this go away by telling her what happened but nothing has changed since a few minutes ago. You are not ready for your mom to know and not because you are scared for yourself but because you are scared for her. You love your mom, despite everything she has done. That is just the way it works. Telling her about the rape is not up for discussion yet; you are not ready.

"Is it because of your father and me?" she spontaneously assumes, "Are you doing this to spite us?"

"No, mom!?" you spit, frowning incredibly, "I did it because…"

The words are there on your tongue but they don't budge. Coming up with a lie right now is surprisingly difficult, especially for someone who has kept a secret so tragic for as long as you have.

"Well?" your mother probes impatiently, "Tell me, Santana."

"Because…" you try again, hoping the sentence will finish itself.

"Because I asked her to try it," Quinn interrupts, stepping forward as if she were a target to shoot down.

"Excuse me?" your mother says, turning to face her.

"Quinn," you say, shaking your head at her.

"Yeah," she continues, ignoring the glares you send her, "I…uh…see, Mrs. Lopez, someone I knew gave me some and I…I thought it'd be fun to try it out but I didn't want to do it alone so I made her try it with me. I didn't realize how bad it was going to turn out."

She squints at Quinn, eyes checking to validate the claim. You watch the way your mother sizes her up and you just know that she is sticking an imaginary note on Quinn's forehead that reads "the devil". Eventually she turns back to face you again.

"Is this true, Santana?" your mother asks.

You are ready to say no but you shoot another look at Quinn and notice how her eyes insist that you go with the flow. She knows this is what you need right now; a temporary excuse until the time comes when you are ready to talk about it with your mother. Quinn nods to remind you that she is willing to do this, to take the fall, to shift the blame from you onto her. The twist in your stomach is inevitable but you know that this is what you want: to keep the truth hidden for a little while longer, to give her some peace while you develop the strength to come clean about everything.

"Yeah," you say quietly, still ashamed that you aren't strong enough to deal with it the right way, "Quinn gave me the drugs."

Your mother sighs in dramatic relief, but you decide that you aren't finished.

"But she didn't force them on me," you add, "I did it. It was still my fault."

"Ay pero mi'ja," your mom says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "You're not a drug addict?"

You swallow nervously, "Of course not."

"So this was a mistake, yes?" she clarifies, "You won't try it again?"

You grit your teeth, clenching your jaw to avoid talking back to her. You know she doesn't mean to piss you off but she has the tendency to talk to you like you are still five years old. In high school, there was always a comment like this one. _You know better now, right? _

"No, I won't," you answer flatly.

"So you're okay?" she asks, "I don't need to worry about my daughter needing some kind of rehabilitation or therapy do I?"

"No, mom," you answer in monotone, lying to her on almost every level, "I just made a few bad mistakes, I'm sorry. I'll be fine."

"Well then that's what matters," she replies, smiling in relief but it doesn't really comfort you, "I just want you to be safe and healthy."

"That doesn't make any sense," you say, finally snapping, "If that were true, how am I supposed to explain the last six months. Not once, Mamá. I could have been dead for all you knew!"

"Don't talk like that," your mother warns you.

"Stop telling me how I can and can't talk!" you fight back, tears stinging behind your eyes, "I'm not a little girl anymore and you can't expect me to treat you like my mom after all this time."

"Santana, I—" she tries to say, the look in her eyes actually genuine for the first time today.

"Just go, please," you say, breaking away from your mother's gaze, "Vete, por favor, Mamá. No te quiero aquí. You came, you said what you had to say, I won't do it again, so that's that…go back to Lima and tell Dad it was nice to see him too."

The room falls silent, everybody's heads either facing another direction or facing the ground. You sniff and quickly brush away the tear that leaked onto your cheek. Your mother is speechless, which is what you were hoping to achieve with that outburst. You love her but that doesn't mean you need her around anymore. She made a crucial decision six months ago when she and your father decided to cut you off. You know that they did it because they thought you were being lazy, because you didn't care about the future. Again, things would be incredibly different if your parents knew the truth. Maybe they wouldn't have disowned you like that; but they did, so you aren't going to waste time dreaming up alternatives. Humans spend half of their lifetime living in a world of what-ifs and possibilities. Some spend even longer. You don't want to end up like that. You want to move forward now; that, you _are _ready for.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes but you refrain from acknowledging its sincerity, "I'm sorry that I made it so difficult for you."

"Yeah, well," you say quietly, still avoiding her eyes, "That would have meant something when I still needed you."

You hear her suck in a breath as if the words had pierced her right in the chest, which you know they did, and release it moments later through a devastated sigh. You reach up and rub your eyes before curling your hand into a first and placing it against your lips. Your mother suddenly stands up and straightens out her dress, taking in a deep breath in an attempt to release the negative air from her system. She makes a bold move and leans down to you, stroking your hair gently before placing a kiss on top of your head. Your eyes shut tightly, lips trembling, as you wait for her to let go and leave. Tears gather at the corners of your eyes. You could have done without that kiss but she had to make it harder again. Your mother has always expressed her love for you in the most inconvenient times and in the most unusual manner. Sometimes, you swear her heart is black enough to leave you on the edge of a street and drive away, like six months ago. Other times, like right now, you swear she'll love you forever. Either way, though, you're exhausted from having to deal with your parents and their steep, _steep _expectations. With the situation you're in now, you don't need another conflict standing in the way of your progress.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Santana," she says softly once she pulls away.

You know that if you speak, your voice will turn grainy and cracked so you stay silent. Instead, you turn your head away from her and look down to signal that you do not want to deal with her and that is final. The truth is that your mother is a great woman and a great wife, but she has never been the best mother. Sometimes, you try not to blame it entirely on her because maybe you were a difficult child. Maybe you did make things harder for them, but then you tell yourself that none of that should matter for the parents. Stubborn or not, she is your mother and you are her daughter; it is not supposed to be easy all the time but you make it work because you are a family. Neither of your parents realized that enough. Luckily, you had a whole other family waiting for you.

She finally separates herself from you entirely and sighs in defeat, knowing there is nothing she can say or do to change your mind. Your mother starts walking towards the door, keeping her head down as she leaves. You can't bear to see her out so you do the same; keep your head down and face hidden. The only reason you know she left the room is because Brittany, Quinn and Tina come to the bed immediately. Hands rest on your back and another kiss is placed on top of your head. You don't want to open your eyes for a while and you know that Brittany is the one to your left, so you lean that direction and let her arms wrap around your body. Now that you have stopped trying to hold back emotions, the tears fall willingly. You let it happen; you let your feelings collapse because you are too tired of acting tough when that is the last thing you are. Plus, you would not be fooling anybody. Quinn and Tina already know you too well and with Brittany here too, the combination of all their abilities has you figured out like an open book. No, you don't try to put up a front anymore; they know that. In fact, you know they would much rather have you fall apart every day than lie to them and pretend you are okay. Not to mention it feels better this way; when you aren't trying so hard to be someone or something you aren't. It is harder to be vulnerable and weak, but what you have learned in the past week or so is that you don't always have to be strong. You have three perfectly good people willing to do that for you and today, you are finally going to let them.

* * *

"Is she asleep?" Brittany whispers as she holds Santana's body, breaking the silence of the room.

Quinn looks up from her book and ducks down to an angle where she can see Santana's eyes. They are closed and her breaths flow evenly and she hasn't moved in almost an hour. Quinn uses the evidence to confirm it.

"Yeah," she answers quietly.

The three of them have done their best to stay quiet because the situation with Santana and her mom was more than overwhelming, and they were not even the ones involved. They can't imagine how Santana must have felt. They all know a little bit about Santana's relationship with her parents but it has always been a grey area. Nobody really understands how it works between them, mostly because it is one of the many things Santana refuses to talk about. The one thing they know for sure is that it isn't the typical parent-daughter kind of deal like most families. Something is off and while they don't know what, they have always been extra careful with the subject.

"Would you take over for a second?" Brittany requests, "I need to go to the bathroom."

"Actually," Quinn says, standing up but realizing something, "I think I have to go too. Tina…would you?"

Tina smiles and moves off the couch, "Yes, yes, I'll be the pillow."

Brittany slowly shifts her arms out of the embrace and separates herself from Santana while Tina maneuvers her way into the position, wrapping the smaller body up the same way she had been held before. Santana shifts as a result of the switch but her eyes stay closed and unawake, unconsciously readjusting to the new comfort. Tina looks down and strokes a few loose pieces of Santana's hair, soothing her back into a sleepy state. Brittany lingers beside the bed temporarily, adjusting her clothes before letting her eyes travel back to Santana. She sighs affectionately, as if it takes an incredible amount of strength to walk away from Santana. Nobody judges her or finds it strange. When we realize something important could potentially be lost, we put more effort into keeping it safe.

"Don't you have to…?" Tina says quietly, noticing the way Brittany lost track of her own thoughts.

"Right," Brittany answers, snapping out of it.

"She'll be fine, Britt," Quinn reassures her, "Come on."

"Yeah, I know," Brittany says, pressing her palms together and nodding, "I know."

Brittany starts to walk backwards but slow enough that she doesn't make it much farther after a few seconds. Quinn and Tina share a look when they notice Brittany's reluctance to leave Santana behind.

"Britt?" Tina asks softly, "You okay?"

Her eyes widen when she realizes she spaced out yet again, "What? Oh...yeah."

"It's not your fault," Quinn says, assuming that is what is bothering Brittany, "Santana and her mother have never been on perfect terms. She'll be okay."

"Yeah but if I hadn't…called," Brittany murmurs, "She wouldn't have had to deal with any of it."

"But you did," Quinn says, looping her hand through Brittany's, "And, hey, it turned out okay. Santana's still here and safe."

With that, she tugs on Brittany's arm and finally convinces her to turn around. Tina watch as Quinn and Brittany pass through the door and leave. They walk down the hallway ahead of them, carefully pausing whenever nurses and doctors need to cut across them.

"Why did you call her, may I ask?" Quinn says, still unsure of the real reason.

"It was…it was just something we had agreed on when I went to visit her right before I left Lima," Brittany explains, keeping her eyes glued to the floor, "I said I'd keep an eye out for her but…that was before I had even seen Santana again."

When they turn a corner, Brittany looks up and realizes they have reached their destination. She wiggles free from Quinn's grip and lets her enter first.

"What was your end?" Quinn wonders, pushing the door to the bathroom open.

"Hmm?" Brittany hums in confusion, slowly following her in.

"Your end of the agreement?" Quinn rephrases, approaching a stall and occupying it, "You said you'd keep an eye out for Santana for her mother so…what did she do for you?"

Brittany swallows nervously and decides to stay at the counter and study her reflection. The dark circles under her eyes mark the exhaustion and stress from the past two days combined. She stares at it a little too long; the reflection starts to disturb her. Brittany forces herself to ignore it; she turns on the tap and cups her hands under the faucet, gathering a pool of water to splash against her face. When she turns it off, she shakes her hands try and twists around to lean against the counter.

"It doesn't matter," she finally answers, even though Quinn is already in the stall, "The point is I should have just told Santana before I called."

Quinn remains silent, allowing Brittany the ability to hear the distinct creak of the bathroom door.

"Brittany?" a voice calls out timidly.

Brittany's pushes herself off the counter and confronts the woman standing in front of her, "Mrs. Lopez?"

She quickly shoots a look to the stall Quinn is occupying and feels her heart begin to race. The older woman steps forward but seems unaware of the fact that Quinn is here too. She ignores it and continues towards her, but with a different sense of composure than the one she had in the room with Santana. Her tone is softer and quieter, as if she has been broken. Brittany finds it fascinating as it is the first time she has ever seen the resemblance between Santana and her mother; such strong, independent women equally fragile and sensitive. Brittany stands upright and stares sharply despite her confusion. She sneaks another peek at Quinn's stall and feels the situation creep beyond uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here?" Brittany asks.

"I just caught a glimpse of you walking in and, well, I need to talk to you before I go," she answers.

"I thought you already left," Brittany says, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, Santana made it pretty clear that she wanted me gone, didn't she?" Mrs. Lopez says sadly.

"Can you blame her?" Brittany says harshly, "No offense, Mrs. Lopez, but you _were_ a little ruthless."

Santana was battered in there with mother; question after question fired at her just to tear apart the confidence and self esteem of the most important person in this world to Brittany. It was infuriating and the worst part was that Brittany couldn't do anything; it was not her place. On top of that, she still carries the guilt for being the one to put Santana in such a difficult position in the first place. Brittany was sure about making the call when she did but that was because she was not expecting Mrs. Lopez to fly the six hundred or so miles to New York City and visit. Like she told Santana, if she had known then she would have definitely brought it up. The entire day has just not run so smoothly, to say the least.

"I know my flaws as a mother," she says truthfully, "I know that I don't quite know how to handle situations well and even more so with someone as sensitive as Santana. I never really know the right thing to say, never did."

"So why are you still here?" Brittany asks again, slowly forgetting about Quinn.

"I don't want Santana to hate me," Mrs. Lopez confesses, "I know she has every reason to and I understand if she does…but I love my daughter, Brittany."

"I'm not sure I'm the one you should be telling this to," Brittany says carefully, sending her a puzzled glare.

"She listens to you," Mrs. Lopez says, stepping closer to Brittany, "I lost her trust a long time ago, but you still have hers."

Brittany inhales deeply and refrains from replying just yet. She has lost count of how many times she has heard a sentence like that. One would think it is sweet, and she used to as well, but the feeling has gradually disappeared. Brittany feels a lot less of an individual and a lot more like the bridge between Santana and the rest of the world. Everybody uses her to get to Santana because of the extraordinary connection they share. She is honored to have the privilege to be such an important person in Santana's life but that does not mean she wants to exploit it for the convenience of others. Brittany has yet to know what Mrs. Lopez will ask of her but it is safe to say she does not like the sound of where it is going.

"She trusts me because I earned that trust," Brittany confesses, "I'm not going to manipulate her into believing something she doesn't. I'm not that kind of person, so you can stop right there if that's what you want me to do."

Mrs. Lopez nods, taking another step closer to Brittany. She pauses in thought, eyes lingering on the young blonde whom she has known and cared for.

"I've known you for a very long time, Brittany," Mrs. Lopez reminds her, "Just like Santana, I watched you grow up. I know that you're a very smart girl and that you understand people in ways many people fail to. You know how I feel about Santana. You know that I do love my daughter."

Brittany swallows nervously, "I might believe you, but that doesn't mean Santana will."

"If she hears it from you, she'll believe you," Mrs. Lopez explains, "She knows you're always honest."

"I'm not comfortable with doing that," Brittany admits, "I've already hid one thing from her and I feel horrible about it. I won't agree to do it again, with all due respect."

Mrs. Lopez studies Brittany in amazement. She knows she can't ask Brittany to change how Santana feels, but she would only use her to put in a good word for when the time does come to set things right again. In the meantime, Mrs. Lopez understands why Brittany is refusing to help her so willingly. She nods and decides to twist the nature of the conversation to something else she noticed when she was in the room with Santana.

"I take it that you haven't asked yet…" Mrs. Lopez comments, stepping closer.

"Excuse me?" Brittany says in confusion.

"I didn't see a ring," Mrs. Lopez explains.

Brittany's eyes widen when she makes the connection and her thoughts suddenly rush back to Quinn. She is not supposed to hear this.

"No," Brittany says quietly, "No, things aren't exactly the way I pictured them to be."

"Are you having doubts?" she wonders.

"Never," Brittany responds immediately, "But that's not the most important thing right now."

Mrs. Lopez frowns and suddenly Brittany feels that the sentence did not come out the way she wanted it to. Regardless of Quinn, she decides, Brittany attempts to clarify what she intended to say.

"I mean, now is not the time," she follows up, "Plus, I knew I'd have to wait a while. I couldn't just show up at her doorstep and have that be that."

"Couldn't you, though?" Mrs. Lopez asks, "Isn't that how it worked for you? After two years apart, you woke up one day and realized you wanted to marry my daughter."

"Oh…well, no, Mrs. Lopez," Brittany replies slowly, "I've…wanted to marry Santana since I was nine years old."

Mrs. Lopez smiles to herself, soft enough for it to go unnoticed if Brittany had not been paying close attention.

"So what are you waiting for?" she asks sincerely.

Brittany considers the idea, the possibility, but her face falls seconds later. Quinn comes back to mind, Santana comes back to mind, and suddenly her heart skips a few beats. She curses in her head for being so careless about her surroundings. Why is it so easy for her to lose track of reality whenever she thinks or talks about her feelings for Santana? It is almost as if they are too much for this world that she has to step into another one where magic and the concept of forever are things that exist, not things that we wish we had.

"It's not that simple," Brittany explains, clearing her throat, "Santana…she—"

"Has loved you ever since you walked into her life," Mrs. Lopez interjects, reaching out to touch Brittany's arm, "You were both seven years old and devoted to each other in a way I found so peculiar and unlike any other. She came home from school one day and told me she met a girl named Brittany who had pigtails and a funny looking horse doll with a horn. She said she liked the horse doll, but I think we both know what she was really talking about."

The corners of Brittany's lips curve upwards and warmth spreads inside her, the kind that reminds her of the intensity at which she feels for Santana.

"She…never told me about that," Brittany confesses quietly, still carrying with her the smile from that new piece of information.

"Knowing my daughter, she was probably scared to admit how strongly she felt for you at such a young age," Mrs. Lopez suggests before concluding the reason for bringing up the whole idea, "But look, I didn't come here to tell you that. I know you have already made your decision about Santana. I just…couldn't leave without doing something, without being of some use. So…would you give this to Santana?"

She reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope with Santana's name written in cursive on the front. She extends it out for Brittany to take, but Brittany eyes it strangely.

"Can I trust that you'll make sure she reads it?" Mrs. Lopez asks, even though she already knows the answer.

Brittany finally reaches out and takes the envelope, nodding as a response. Mrs. Lopez offers her a pressed smile once Brittany has taken a few moments to examine the item.

"I worry about her," Mrs. Lopez admits, "I worry that she doesn't know how to deal with the real world and its challenges."

"I'm more worried that the real world doesn't know how to handle Santana," Brittany says, twisting her words, "She's an extraordinary person, Mrs. Lopez. You should give her more credit."

Mrs. Lopez contemplates that thought and eventually accepts it, "You'll take care of her for me, won't you Brittany?"

Brittany nods again, knowing with all her heart that she will do that for the rest of her life or at least for as long as Santana lets her. Mrs. Lopez places an affectionate hand on Brittany's arm and offers a genuine smile. She then takes a deep breath before finally backing up and turning to leave.

"Are you really leaving?" Brittany asks, "You won't…say goodbye to her?"

Mrs. Lopez turns around and shrugs, "A mother knows when her children no longer need her."

With that, she makes her exit through the door. Brittany's eyes fall to the envelope and study it carefully once Mrs. Lopez has left, but her thoughts are soon interrupted by the flush of a toilet and the stall door clicking open. Brittany turns to face Quinn who walks out slowly, lips parted in shock. Brittany realizes there is no point in trying to come up with an alternative meaning behind what was said because she knows Quinn interpreted it correctly. Instead, Brittany presses her lips together and releases a breath, turning back to look at the envelope.

"Shit," Quinn curses under her breath.

"Let's just go," Brittany says, attempting to walk past her.

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, I don't think so," Quinn objects, blocking her path and throwing her hands between them, "Brittany…I can't…believe this. I mean, was that all true?"

"What?" Brittany asks dumbly, hoping for a chance to still save face.

"What Santana's mom just said," Quinn reminds her, "What you just said. You…holy shit, Brittany…were you going to ask Santana to marry you!?"

Brittany looks around the room consciously despite the fact that no one is in there but them. She hushes for Quinn to stay quiet nonetheless, dragging her off to the corner of the room.

"Calm down, okay?" she pleads, "I may have…had a plan but that was before I saw her. Before all of this, before I realized that I can't ask her to marry me, I can't do that. Santana can't even kiss me for longer than five seconds without freaking out and I can't touch her without feeling like I'm hurting her."

"And the two years?" Quinn says, "The fact that you and Santana hadn't seen or spoken in that long? Did that just not occur to you?"

Brittany shrugs, "It…didn't change anything, Quinn. Those years were just years I spent realizing how I really do feel about her."

"But…I mean, what was your plan?" Quinn asks, still trying to make sense of the news, "Show up here after all that time and get down on one knee?"

"Of course not," Brittany answers, breaking away from Quinn to pace the room, "…I didn't have it figured out yet, I just knew that I wanted Santana and I wanted her for the rest of my life. I knew it the day after she left for New York when she was gone and I was alone but I promised myself that I'd let her go because that's what we agreed. I thought I was crazy to think I could be so sure of something so important about myself so early in life but I realized that if knowing I wanted Santana forever made me crazy then I've been crazy for long, _long_ time. I didn't want to be away from her anymore; I wanted to be with her. I kept trying to picture my life in ten years time and she was always there, waiting for me. The night before I left to come here, I went to Santana's parents' house and talked to her mom. It was then that I found out Santana hadn't been in contact with them in months.

"Oh my god," Quinn says slowly, realizing the truth on her own, "Your end of the agreement…"

"…was Santana's hand," Brittany nods, "I was ready, believe it or not. Of course I wasn't going to do it right away. I had to see Santana again and talk to her first. I had to make sure the girl I was in love with was still there and still loved me back."

"She does love you, Brittany," Quinn says, approaching her.

"But things are so wildly strayed from what I had expected, Quinn," Brittany confesses, "I freaked out when I realized it was not going to be as simple as I hoped."

"Yeah," Quinn admits, "It's not high school anymore."

"Exactly," Brittany says, "It's not high school anymore and Santana isn't the same person. And that is not her fault, but now there's just…there's this whole…mess that we have to help clean up before I can even start to think about making that big of a commitment."

"So you don't want to marry her anymore?" Quinn asks carefully.

"I'd marry Santana tonight if I could, Quinn…" Brittany answers with a shrug before remembering the gravity of their situation, "…if things were different…if she didn't have such a…horrible past."

Quinn nods slowly, "But…she does."

"But she does," Brittany repeats, eyes falling to the ground, "And all I can afford to care about right now is how to help her get through this."

Quinn sighs, "She will get through this, Britt."

"I know," Brittany says, "But I'll feel better about it all once we're out of this place."

Quinn laughs quietly, "God, I know. I'd be glad if I never see another hospital ever again."

"Yeah," Brittany agrees.

They let silence intervene and take over temporarily.

"Would you…not tell Santana or Tina about this?" Brittany requests, "It's not something I am necessarily proud to admit."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to commit yourself to the person you love, Brittany. It just sucks that it isn't as simple as getting down one knee anymore," Quinn tells her, sympathizing with Brittany, "But don't worry, I won't mention it."

Brittany offers a grateful smile, knowing a lot of what Quinn said is true. Quinn watches as Brittany's eyes fall back down to the envelope and trace the edges of its outline with her fingertips.

"What do you think it says?" Quinn wonders.

Brittany shrugs doubtfully, "No idea. I just hope it won't upset Santana, whatever it is."

* * *

Your eyes begin to flutter, your thoughts growing louder and more distinct within seconds. When you finally peel them open, Quinn is the first person you see and she is sitting in a chair beside your bed. Your eyes feel swollen and that realization brings you to remember your mother. She was here too and that was all real, not a dream. You would have appreciated if it were one, but the memory of her being here, saying the things she said, is too vivid and fresh to be a dream. Quinn looks up from her book and notices that you are slowly waking up.

"Hey you," Quinn says, closing the novel and putting it aside.

Once you are in an upright position, your eyes move past Quinn to notice where Brittany stands by the window; the one that looks out into the city. You notice that it is dark out there, though, and you begin to wonder how long you have been asleep. She turns immediately when she hears Quinn's voice, discovering that you had woken up. Brittany forgets about the view and comes to the side of your bed. You are surprised that her arms are not securely wrapped around you like the last thing you remember before drifting away. You swore there was another body that you dozed off on, but then again maybe you weren't thinking clearly enough. You yawn and rub your eyes as they water in the process. You find Tina too when you regain your vision; she is on the other side of your bed in another chair.

"How long have I been asleep for?" you wonder, hearing the gravelly texture of your voice.

"A long time," Brittany says, "You must have been really tired. It's almost 8."

"Shit," you curse under your breath, "I'll be awake all night now."

"We'll keep you company," Tina says, smiling when you look up to meet her.

"Are you hungry?" Brittany asks, "You haven't eaten in a while."

"Am I…even allowed to eat?" you ask genuinely.

Quinn chuckles, "I'll ask the nurse."

You nod and watch Quinn leave the room to do that for you. In the meantime, you let your eyes wander back to Brittany.

"How are you feeling?" she asks sweetly.

"Alright," you say ambiguously.

"You sure?" Brittany asks, reaching out to place a hand on your arm, "Can I get you anything?"

You shake your head softly, "I'm okay, just…feeling lousy."

"The nurse came by at around 6 and started you on antibiotics. The injection kind," she informs you.

You look down at the needle in your arm and take a deep breath, anticipating the moment you can finally leave this place and go home.

"Great," you say sarcastically, sighing.

Brittany smiles, "You'll be out of here soon."

"And we're going to have a girls night in," Tina says excitedly, "We've planned it already."

A few days ago, you would not have liked that sound of that but there is a strange flutter in your stomach now; you realize that it sounds like exactly the kind of thing you need. Maybe it is because you would rather be anywhere else than in this hospital and the thought of staying home with the three most important people in your life cuddled up beside you is comforting.

"That sounds nice," you admit quietly, but feel something heavy join the flutter in your stomach, "I'm sorry…I know you guys must be dying to get home too."

"Eh," Tina says, smirking to lighten the mood.

You try to reciprocate it but suddenly you feel guilty about the past few days and how they have done nothing but take time out of their own lives to stay here day and night to make sure you are okay.

"I'm sorry that I put you guys through this," you say timidly, that heaviness spreading to the rest of your body.

"What are you talking about?" Brittany asks worriedly.

"I mean…I know you all have better things to do," you explain, "And you all have things to worry about on your own."

"Hey," Brittany murmurs, shifting closer, "Don't think that. We're here because we love you. We wouldn't be anywhere else, Santana."

"Britt's right," Tina adds, "You come before all those other things."

"School?" you say, turning specifically to Brittany, "I know you've been here day and night, B. You're missing school."

"It doesn't matter," she says casually.

"Yes it does," you insist, "I don't want you to miss school. You worked hard to get here."

"I told my instructors that I had an important personal matter," Brittany explains, "Plus, it's only been a two days. I haven't missed much. Don't worry about that, okay?"

"You're going back once I get out of here," you tell her firmly.

"San…" she starts again.

"Promise me," you say, cornering her into a difficult position, "I've screwed up my life already, I will not screw up yours."

"Your life is not screwed up, Santana," she says, scolding you for thinking that.

"Just promise me," you order, ignoring what she said.

She looks at Tina helplessly but you keep your eyes focused on her, waiting until she says the words you want to hear. Brittany returns to you, searching carefully through her beautiful blue. You almost forget to concentrate on extracting that promise from her because of how blue her eyes look tonight; the bluest you have ever seen them. She uses them to her advantage as you slowly lose yourself between on the path of her gaze. The only reason you snap out of it moments later is because she finally decides to answer and her voice draws you back into focus.

"Yes, okay," she says, "I promise."

Satisfied with her response, you release a breath and send her a pressed smile. It might seem strange that you were so worked up about that but just thinking about how they all have their own lives to take care of too made you realize that you can be responsible for your bad decisions but you will not drag them down with you. Tina, Quinn and Brittany all attend college and have part-time jobs; that is what they need to be spending their time on. You aren't saying you want them all to leave you alone because you do need them, especially at this stage, but that does not mean this is what you want for them. This—them having to deal with your issues—is not what you want for any of them nor but since you can't change what you have done and what has been done to you, there really is no way of dealing with the situation pleasantly. You just want to skip to the part where you are better, healed; free.

Just as the thought finishes, Quinn comes back in with a nurse following closely behind. She is carrying a tray of food, which looks a lot more appealing than anything else right now. The nurse sets the mini table down in front of you with the tray of food on top of it, wishing you an enjoyable meal.

"Oh…Ms. Lopez," the nurse says before forgetting, but you lose focus.

Your eyes scan over the items: a Jello cup, fruits, something that looks like warm soup. The Jello has your desired attention so you reach for it and attempt to open it. You fiddle with the little tab, struggling to tear off the lid when a hand comes to place itself on your arm.

"Santana?" Brittany says softly.

"What? Huh?" you say, glancing up and realizing you had completely missed what the nurse said.

Tina, Brittany and Quinn stifle their chuckles while the nurse tries to repeat what she said.

"I said we started you on antibiotics with an injection but after tonight, you will be required to continue with capsules for 7-14 days. Assuming your vitals and stats remain normal, you will be discharged by noon tomorrow. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," you say obediently, and wait for her to leave the room.

"Here," Brittany says, offering to help you with the Jello that you still can't open.

You hand it over to her and watch how it takes less than five seconds for her to tear off the lid and return the cup to you.

"Show off," you mutter, taking it back and reaching for the spoon on your tray.

Brittany laughs quietly and leans it to place a quick kiss on your cheek to which you can't help but grin. You stick the spoon into the jelly and scoop some out, feeling your stomach grumble at the sight. You are glad they gave you the raspberry flavor because you were afraid it would be like in the movies where the patient always gets that nasty green kind. You gulp the first scoop down but notice only a faint taste. You go for another one and begin to process the flavor better, enjoying it as it graces your tongue.

"Is it good?" Quinn asks, dropping a few M&Ms into her mouth.

Removing the spoon from your mouth, "Uh-huh."

"They gave you a good flavor," Brittany says, smirking.

"I know, thank god," you confess with another mouthful of Jello.

She laughs and this time longer than before. Your smile widens and stays a while too as you pause from eating to admire Brittany's curved lips and flushed cheeks. She drops her head bashfully and runs a hand through her hair. You still can't help but get carried away. You wonder if it will always be like this; you would not mind that at all.

"Uh-oh," Quinn groans, "They're doing it again."

You blink to pull yourself out of the moment and clear your throat, shaking your head lightly and returning to the cup in your hand.

"Naw, Q, you broke it," Tina whines, "They were having a moment."

"Shut up guys," you say, scooping another spoonful. This time you turn to Brittany and extend your hand, "Want some?"

She giggles and shakes her head gently, "No, thank you."

"You sure?" you ask.

"Yes," she confirms, "Go ahead."

"Mkay," you hum, bringing the spoon back to your mouth and shoving it in, "Yo..r…los..s"

"What?" she says through another smile, unable to make out your incoherent words since you spoke them with a mouthful of food.

You swallow it and repeat what you meant to say, "Your loss."

"Ooh," Brittany realizes, "Maybe next time then."

You scoop out the last bits of Jello in the cup and set it down on the tray, satisfied with your appetizer. The next thing you go for is the fruit salad because that looks fresh and cold which you are craving right now. You pick up the bowl and a fork on the way, bringing it closer for you to eat. You poke into two banana slices and slide them into your mouth. When you look up, you realize they are all still watching you and it makes you feel oddly uncomfortable.

"Quit it, I'm hungry," you say stubbornly.

"Yeah, we can see that," Quinn adds with a grin, "If we had known, we would have gotten you food sooner."

You shrug casually, "I don't think I could have eaten before anyways."

A pregnant pause fills the gaps between your voices, but you try not to pay too much attention to it and keep eating. Quinn doesn't seem to share that intention.

"Um…so," she starts, but you refrain from looking up from your bowl just yet, "Are you…okay?"

You gulp at the question and allow yourself a moment to breathe. All the light feelings inside you gain weight and tug you down just a little. You are more than grateful for such caring and supportive friends, but you wish they refrained from asking you the same question every hour of the day and allow you some time to not think about your problems. Still, you know they are just looking out for you. You set the bowl down and lick your lips.

"Uh, yeah," you admit, "I'm…I mean, I'm fine."

You share a look with Brittany who suddenly seems more upset than she was moments ago.

"We're sorry about…your mom and all that," Quinn says, bringing up the subject again, "I know you probably could have done without her breathing down your neck."

You slow down your movements and chew on the apple slice in your mouth for a while, feeling the gravity of your situation creep back onto your shoulders.

"Yeah," Tina adds, "We should have stopped her from talking to the doctor sooner."

"It's fine," you say, setting down your fork, "My mom has never been easy to deal with."

You notice Brittany is unusually quiet now that your mother was brought up again. She is not going to stop feeling bad about it unless you tell her clearly and straightforwardly that what happened wasn't her fault. And you wouldn't be lying to her just to make her feel better because it wasn't Brittany's fault. Things happened the way they did because your mom is your mom and you are you. The same conversation would have taken place whether Brittany was the one to call her or someone else. You'll have to explain that to her later so she doesn't have to feel this horrible.

"Santana?" Tina asks and you turn to face her, "Why didn't you tell her the truth?"

You sigh heavily and clear your throat, "I'm not ready to break my mom's heart."

It is really as simple as that. You aren't ready to cause that kind of damage to someone yet because you know that you still have to learn how to live with what happened to you. Once that is achieved, you can rethink telling your mom about it. As of now, it is not the most important thing on your mind. At least you gave her some kind of peace to work with and hold on to. In the meantime, this talk about your mother reminds you of how it all ended.

"Oh…and Quinn," you say, adressinng her, "You really didn't have to do that for me."

"Yeah I did," she shrugs, "We knew you weren't ready to tell her the truth, but she was tearing you apart. One of us had to do something."

"I know but…you didn't have to take the blame like that," you continue, "She's going to hate you now since you "gave" me the drugs."

"Hey," Quinn says, lifting her shoulders, "She's not my mother. I can deal with a little resentment."

"Still, I…" you begin to say.

"You can thank me later," Quinn smirks, "For now, let's just make sure you walk out of here tomorrow."

You smile softly, "Sounds good."

Quinn smiles back before turning to Brittany and sighing at what she sees. You follow her eyes and end up at Brittany too, watching how she presses her lips together and tries to pretend like it still doesn't bother her.

"She's not mad at you, Brittany," Quinn says, referring to you, "We all know you had honest intentions."

You place the bowl back onto the tray and reach out to rest your hand on the mattress, palm faced up. Brittany glances down at it and breathes out a weak smile, slowly placing her own hand into yours. Once you've secured it, you bring hers up to your lips and kiss her knuckles. You intertwine your fingers with hers and hold your joined hands tightly against your chest. You smile at her before returning to your food and using your free hand to pick up the fork and eat some more fruit.

"Are you sure you don't want a grape or something?" you ask sweetly, chewing on another apple.

She takes a while to respond so you turn to face her again, eyebrows arched. She shakes her head and blinks lazily, a faint smile gracing her lips.

"No," she answers quietly, "I'm good."

Her face falls again, eyes wandering off into space somewhere instead of staying on you. This has to stop; you don't want her to feel like this because of some stupid incident with your mother.

"Um…guys," you say, referring to Quinn and Tina, "Can I…talk to Brittany for a sec?"

They nod understandingly at your request. Brittany's head stays lowered and it kills you to see her beat herself up like this.

"Sure, we'll just…go get some snacks or something," Tina says before taking Quinn by the arm and walking out with her.

"Thanks," you say, smiling at them and waiting until they are gone before you turn back to Brittany.

"I'm so sorry," Brittany murmurs, finally lifting up to meet your eyes again, "I didn't…I really wouldn't have called if I knew she was going to—"

"I know, Brittany," you say, stopping her from apologizing, "I don't blame you for anything, okay?"

She takes in a deep breath and releases it, still unconvinced. You sigh and take a moment to think of what you want to say to her to prove you have no negative feelings about what she did.

"Come here," you say, tugging her hand.

She stands up and shifts onto the mattress, her body facing you with her hands enclosed around one of yours and her face tucked away. You duck a little lower to catch her eyes and draw her head up.

"I…don't know what I would do without you, Brittany," you start, feeling the words form naturally, "I mean, things were okay before the…before Spring Break but I still thought about you all the time. I still had dreams about you. I still loved you. Then the past six months, well, they've been the worst of my life and to think that the difference between...life and death is you…well, it's terrifying because it means that I can't ever afford to lose you."

Brittany's eyes stay locked with yours and the gaze between you intensifies greatly. You love the way your voice sounds when you talk about her; as if the passion consumes you completely that it turns the moment raw and pure and honest.

"Sure, I would have rather not had my mother show up. There was a reason I didn't call her myself but…" you explain, "…but I'm not going to make a big deal out of you calling her up without telling me. I'm tired of feeling hurt; I don't want to feel it anymore. And things like this, they're little and they aren't worth the time or effort to be upset about. Brittany, you have to understand that it is going to take a lot more than that to screw anything up between us. I'm not interested in anything but forever with you."

Her head perks up, probably because of the last part of that speech. You don't realize what you said until it finishes replaying in your head.

"What?" she says softly, brow lifting curiously.

"I mean, you know what I mean," you say nervously.

"Did you say forever?" she asks, knowing very well what words you said and didn't say.

"I…uh," you stumble, feeling your heart race inside your chest, "Yeah, but I mean…you knew that already."

"You want to be with me…" Brittany says slowly, "…forever?"

You feel your stomach flutter and your chest pounding rapidly. The room grows hot and you suddenly feel like you are sweating profusely.

"Uhm…is it…is it hot? I feel like it's hot in here," you say quickly, pinching your gown and airing it out a little.

She smirks, "No, its fine for me."

"Really?" you gulp, breathing quickly as you look around the room strangely.

"Santana," she says, catching your attention.

"Yeah," you answer quickly, meeting her eyes again.

"I want forever with you too," Brittany confesses with a smile.

The reactions start to slow down; your heart gradually paces itself again and your breaths enter and leave in a civilized manner. Her eyes have you mesmerized because they add all the more meaning to what she just told you. There is only one thing you really want to do right now and that is kiss her, so you do. You pull her closer with the hand that she is holding. She leans in and your lips find hers so easily that you swear it is because they know that is where they belong. Your eyes flutter shut when her lips capture yours. Her touch is soft, and you think you know why, but you try not to worry about whether or not she is holding back because she is afraid she might hurt you. All you focus on is how amazing it feels and how you could definitely share kisses like these with her.

"Whoah," you hear Tina's voice as it breaks the bubble you were floating in, "I'm guessing you worked things out."

The kiss breaks when Brittany smiles, leaves your lips and tucks her head into the crease of your neck. You chuckle and look up to find Quinn and Tina walking in, shielding their eyes. They take their old positions and sit down again, intruding on your moment with Brittany. You don't mind it, though; you had your kiss.

"Sorry," you say bashfully, your face warming.

You pull your head back a little further and watch Brittany emerge with flushed cheeks and a scrunched face. You laugh quietly to yourself and reach both of your hands up to straighten out her hair. She lets you take care of her for the moment and once you are done, you cup her face and place a small kiss on her nose. She sighs contently and shifts back to her seat in the chair, running a few shy fingers through her hair.

"Ugh Brittany you might as well come and live with us," Tina says playfully.

Brittany laughs softly and opens her mouth to say something but you beat her to it.

"That's a good idea," you say and watch as three faces turn to you in surprise.

You aren't quite sure what you said either; it came out faster than you could process the words.

"I mean…you know…'cause I'd, uh, I mean I'd like it…if you were there…all the time," you tell Brittany nervously, finding yourself caught in another one of these moments where you begin to sweat.

"Oh my god look at her she's totally choking," Quinn says teasingly.

"Quinn," Tina hisses, swatting her arm with the back of her hand.

"Ow," she whines.

"Screw you guys," you say to Quinn and Tina, "I just meant it would be…nice."

The moment is interrupted when someone's phone rings and all three of them reach into their pockets.

"It's mine," Brittany says, checking to see who is calling, "Uh…it's Sam, I'm gonna take this okay?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, watching as she stands up and answers the call as she is on her way out.

"Hey…hi, yeah…I know I should have texted or something but I'm…" Brittany starts to say but her voice fades once she leaves the room.

You watch her through the screen window, thoughts slowly creeping from the darker parts of your mind.

"Sam," you say quietly to yourself before turning to face the other two, "When did Brittany and Sam…happen?"

Quinn looks to Tina who you assume knows the answer to your question.

"Uh…after you graduated and left, the three of us got really close, but they…I don't know, they had this connection and I guess it's stuck ever since," Tina explains.

You nod, though it is misleading because you don't like the sound of that 'connection' Tina just mentioned.

"Don't worry, Santana," Quinn says, "Brittany loves you."

"No, I know that," you say confidently, "I know."

"Sam was there for her when she didn't have you," Tina continues, "I don't mean like in the 'physical' sense but like…he kept her smiling and that was important for her and for all of us who could see how sad she was for the first few months of school."

"So they dated?" you ask, forgetting whether or not Brittany had told you that when she clarified that they were not dating now.

"Yeah," Tina says hesitantly, "But they were better as friends. That's what they realized."

"And now they're living together," you state, suddenly nervous about the whole situation as you turn to look at Brittany who is still on the phone outside.

You have always been the jealous type and while you knew that Sam and Brittany were living together and that they are incredibly close, it comes to you now as something to be concerned about. You never liked the idea of Brittany being with someone else. The two of you have yet to establish whether or not you are girlfriends or whatever else you could possibly be but whatever it is, Brittany is living with another man and you don't like the sound of that.

"Santana," Quinn warns you again, "Stop thinking."

You snap back to face her, "What? No, I'm not. I'm fine."

"If you don't know by now how much that girl is in love with you then I honestly don't know what else she has to do or say," Quinn says dramatically.

"Okay so I don't like the idea of Brittany living with Sam, can you blame me?" you confess.

"I'm sure you don't," Quinn says, "But you have to trust her."

"It's not about trust, Q," you explain, "I know Brittany would never cheat on me."

"So by that you're saying you two are exclusive?" Tina jumps in, catching on to the fact that you made it seem as though there was a relationship.

"I don't know," you say truthfully, "We haven't…really talked about that yet but…I'm…I don't want to move too quickly."

"Don't do anything you aren't ready for, okay?" Quinn advises, "Brittany will understand if you don't want to make it official or whatever."

"She's my girlfriend," you say, "I mean…we're basically…that's what she is but I…I want to focus on me and…helping myself get better before I can commit to anything like that."

"Have you told her that?" Tina wonders.

"No," you say softly, turning to find Brittany again, "But she knows."

You watch Brittany hang up the phone and tuck it back into her pocket before making her way back in. You clear your throat and attempt to brush off the conversation so she does not suspect anything when she returns.

"Everything okay?" Tina asks thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Brittany says, releasing a big breath, "He just wanted to check up on me and ask how Santana was."

"Did he now?" you mutter with more attitude than you wanted.

Brittany must not have heard but Quinn surely did. You catch her making a face at you for that last comment but you shrug in defense because it was not meant to sound sassy or ill-mannered. Brittany finally reaches her chair but pauses when her eyes find something. You notice it too; the white envelope stuck in the crease of the sofa chair. She slowly reaches down and picks it up, taking her seat once again.

"Uhm…right," she begins, holding the envelope out in front of her, "Santana, your mom…asked me to give you this."

She hands it over to you but it takes a while before you finally agree to take it. You study it carefully in your hands and run the tip of your index across the cursive pen that inked your name on the front. It is thin, so you expect a letter of some sort. You look up and find their eyes on you and the envelope, equally desperate to know what it holds. You take a deep breath and slide a finger underneath the flap on the back and tear it open. You reach in and pull out the two pieces of paper inside it, examining the contents.

"What is it?" Quinn asks curiously.

You frown, rereading it over and over again until it becomes a stain in your mind.

"Santana?" Brittany says slowly, evidently nervous and worried.

"It's a check," you say, breathing out in confusion.

"What?" Tina asks.

You finally lift your head up and blink several times, still unable to grasp what is in your hand. You offer the check to Tina and let her read it. Her eyes scan the details, lips parting in shock.

"Santana," she gasps, "This is 30,000 dollars."

"What?" Quinn exclaims, "For what?"

"I don't know," you say, taking a deep breath and sharing a look with Brittany, "I…don't know."

* * *

**A/N: Hi! Hope you enjoyed the update. I'm going to be so so busy in the next week so I'm not sure when the next one will come but I'm hoping this will hold you off until then. A lot of Brittana feelings and confessions. I know you probably thought Mrs. Lopez would stay a little longer but just remember that this story is based a lot on canon Brittany and Santana but there are definitely aspects of my own. Like Santana's mother. She is not the mother that they gave her on the show so yeah. Anyways, love you all! xx**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Voices **

Brittany is on your right, Quinn to your left, and Tina trails behind in case you stumble backwards somehow. Your legs are not as weak as they were this morning when you stepped off of the hospital bed for the first time in two days. You don't think you have ever been more excited to see your apartment than you are right now, with only a few more steps to go until you reach the floor. The hospital discharged you at noon, as they proposed, and if you had not been delayed by lack of energy and strength, you would have been the first one out of there.

Walking feels more foreign than it should, but you assume that is because you have been off your feet for some time. A sense of dizziness twirls around your head like young ballerinas and their still imperfect pirouettes, so you try to avoid looking around too curiously and keep your eyes focused on the ground that passes by underneath your feet instead. Brittany's hand is wrapped around yours tightly, fingers intertwined, so that also helps with the wobbliness. You remember the look on her face when the nurse came in to discharge you; for a moment you swear she was more relieved than you were. Maybe she was. You keep forgetting that she went through a lot too; seeing you on that bed, anxious, scared of the rapid, unpredictable nature of a hospital environment.

The sound of hands fiddling with a set of keys catches your attention. When you turn to Quinn, you see she has identified the correct one and gained a few steps ahead so she can open the door. When you, Brittany and Tina finally arrive, they let you step in first. Everything looks and feels the same as you left it. You even skip past the good memories and immediately point out that the path you are walking on right now is the one you had stumbled down days ago, drugged and uncoordinated. And that wall to your left is what you were held up against, by Brittany and Tina, because there was blood and a world so torn off balance.

Brittany must have noticed the way your eyes greeted the apartment; she squeezes tighter with one hand while the other comes around to your shoulder. You quickly shake the images from your mind and take a deep breath. One thing you can appreciate, though, is how fresh and normal it smells in here compared to the sterility of your hospital room. Brittany's hand guides you to a stool where you can sit down. You offer her a pressed smile and take the seat, rubbing your eyes tiredly. Tina walks over to the cupboard above the stove in the kitchen and pulls out a mug.

"I'm gonna make some tea," she says, "Anybody want some?"

You glance up and shake your head, "No thanks."

"I'm good," Brittany answers afterwards.

"Um…sure, I'll have some," Quinn responds.

Tina takes note and pulls out another mug, setting the two down on the counter below. She grabs the kettle nearby and sticks it under the tap, filling it up with water to boil. Quinn helps with whatever she can while you decide to turn to Brittany and spend some time there. You rest your cheek in the palm of your propped up hand and let your eyes wander the edge of her jaw line. She catches your eyes and stares back at you, smiling warmly. She takes a deep breath and shifts to look at your hairline, reaching up and stroking a few loose strands to tuck behind your ear.

"So…Santana," Quinn says slowly, clearing her throat.

Her voice shatters the moment between you and Brittany, earning her an aggravated sigh from you. Still, you try not to be so obvious because Quinn and Tina have been looking out for you over the past few days and you do not want to take that for granted. You are just thankful that you will have your own room again where you and Brittany can be alone, without interruptions, without collisions. The thought lingers sweetly in the near distance.

"Have you…thought about it any further?" she finishes.

"Quinn," Brittany objects, but you place a hand on her thigh to restrain her.

"No, it's okay," you say, shrugging, "I guess I should…deal with it now."

"I didn't…I wasn't implying that, I just wanted to know if you had thought about it since last night," Quinn explains herself.

"No…I haven't," you answer plainly.

Brittany rubs your back soothingly, making sure you know you have the choice to stop talking. In the hospital last night, after you opened the envelope and discovered the check for 30,000 dollars, the first thing you wanted to do was put it away. Being in that current state of mind was neither the right time nor place to deal with that. When you looked into the envelope again and found a letter, you did not even bother to open it and read what it said. Instead, you gave the envelope back to Brittany to keep and told them you would handle that later _and_ would appreciate if it was not brought up for a while. You do not blame them for being curious though; it is a lot of money after all.

"Do you have it?" you ask, twisting over your shoulder to Brittany.

She sends a subtle glare to Quinn before nodding and reaching into her bag to pull out the envelope. You peel it open again and locate the letter your mom wrote, along with the check. Just looking at the words printed neatly on the page makes your stomach shift nervously, your chest tighten like it is being clamped to a workbench. You notice the printed inscription at the top of the paper that reads "Beth Israel Medical Center". She must have asked the reception for something to write on while she was still there. It begins with your name, Santana, but that is as far as you can go. For some reason, you would rather have someone else read it to you rather than you read it on your own. Everything about the letter screams the unexpected, and you are not quite ready to look it in the eye. You give the letter to Brittany instead. She cocks an eyebrow, sharing a confused look with you and then Quinn and Tina as well.

"I don't want to read it," you admit, still holding the letter out for Brittany to take.

She does so eventually, after some time, but you can tell she is not exactly comfortable with it either. Your mother sent this to you, for your eyes, but that knot in your stomach warns you well enough that it would be better if you kept your distance from the letter. And by distance, you mean denying your eyes the access to read it so that you avoid immediately perceiving it the wrong way.

"Um…" she hesitates, studying the words carefully, "Okay, should I just keep it for later again?"

"No," you object, "I want you to read it to me."

"Santana…I don't think that's—"

"Please?" you ask politely, "I just don't want to be the one to read it."

She looks at you sympathetically, surrendering to your plea. Brittany clears her throat and squints at the scribbles on the paper, pre-examining the ideas vaguely before properly reading it to you out loud.

"Um…" she starts nervously, "Okay…so…_Santana, I'm more than relieved that you are okay and that you being in the hospital wasn't anything majorly serious. Whether you choose to believe me or not, I was so worried about you. I still am, all the time in fact. I know I show it poorly but that is only because I was never very good at dealing with these kinds of situations. The ones with the serious faces and the serious talks. I always make the wrong decisions, especially when it comes down to what is best for my own daughter. I know I have flaws and I know that those flaws have caused you great burden and stress over the years, I'm sorry. As for the past six months, I have no excuse. I handled everything so horribly. Your father; he was just so furious, so outraged by the news that you had quit college and he refused to support you any longer because to him, you always seemed to be throwing away your privileges like they didn't matter and this one was the last straw. He still loves you, I know it in my heart, but it will take him a while to come around. You know how he is. I am not proud of any of the choices I made about you during these past months, mostly because I know they have given you enough to decide that you no longer need your mother. While it breaks my heart, I accept and I respect that. I trust you, Santana. I trust your future. In the meantime, I want to leave you with some extra money in case you need it. I'm not asking anything from you, just that you use it wisely and that you take care of yourself. Love, Mom."_

Brittany releases a long overdue breath and turns the paper over to make sure nothing else is written on the backside. You are still processing the information, impressed that nothing in that letter offended or belittled you in any sense. The only point that tasted bitter was the one about your father and how he still loves you. She has always excused his behavior and, while her comment was not surprising, you know for sure know that she is still the same person because she felt the need to include that, to still make those excuses. The money, on the other hand, is more of a shock. You are not really sure how to feel about it.

"You okay?" Quinn asks carefully.

Her voice breaks your train of thought and drags your eyes away from meaningless space, back into the moment. You take a deep breath and glance between the three of them.

"Yeah," you murmur, frowning, "Yeah…I'm fine, just…I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."

They stay silent for a while, perhaps caught between wanting to speak their mind and wanting to offer you time to think about it yourself. You could use the money; you think will you definitely take it, but you won't deny that it feels strange. You realize that it is probably because some of the 30,000 dollars would be used for your therapy; the therapy that you specifically told her you would not need. The problem now is that you feel guilty because your mother will always be a thought in the back of your mind as she is the one providing you with the help that you need and yet she will have no idea.

"So…" Tina starts slowly.

You look to her and chew on your lip. They want to know what you are going to do about it; take the money or turn it down. Tina's shoulders lift, revealing to you her opinion that, yes, you should take it. Quinn offers you a look of the same nature, encouraging you to take the money and accept your mother's gesture. When you arrive at Brittany, you see that she gives you something slightly different from the other two. Quinn and Tina both make it obvious that they believe you should take it, but there is something about Brittany's soft eyes and gentle features that reveal a sense of unconditional support no matter what you decide. You can't see what her opinion is because she does not even take enough time to develop one; it is all about you. Sometimes you lose sight of how different Brittany is from everybody else and then it is suddenly brought to your attention again in one of these moments, hitting you just as hard as, if not harder than, the first time.

The pressure is overwhelming and you do not do well under this condition. The best idea now, like you had initially planned, is to take more time to think about it—or more time to _not_ think about it actually.

"Uh…" you mumble, gulping nervously, "I don't…guys, I…"

"You don't have to make a decision now, San," Brittany reminds you before turning to the other two, "What's the hurry?"

They share glances between each other when they remember that you have the right to do what you wish with the decision. This is not about them and what they want; it is about you and the worst thing you could do is rush into doing something you know you may regret in the future.

"Right," Tina says, "Of course you don't. Quinn and I...we were just curious to know but we won't talk about it until you want to, okay?"

Quinn is slightly less reluctant to give up so easily but she knows that this is your issue and while she can have an opinion, it is up to you in the end. Quinn has always been harder to convince, especially when the matter is not something she agrees with or likes. Again, she is a lot like you in that sense.

You press your lips together gratefully, "Thanks."

Your eyes wander across the apartment to your bedroom door that you suddenly wish you were behind right now. You miss the softness of a normal bed and the privacy of your own room. On that same trail of thought, you also have a desperate desire to scrape the thick layer of medicine and needles and all sorts of contaminating substances from your skin. Having to wear the same clothes you had on when you were admitted into the hospital only intensifies that need to feel clean again.

"I think…" you begin to say, feeling self-conscious about your body, "I think I would like to take a bath."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Tina says, sympathizing with your situation.

"Let me go run that for you," Brittany says immediately, kissing your cheek softly before going.

She continues past you towards the bathroom that is closest to your room; the one that you like. Seconds after she walks in, you hear the tap running and the water hitting the surface of the tub. You anticipate it greatly; the warm water against your skin, maybe drowning in it for a while before coming up for air eventually.

"By the way, your phone is over on the coffee table," Quinn informs you, pointing behind to the living room.

You turn around and see it sitting atop a small pile of magazines but have no interest in checking for any missed calls or text messages. If anything, it will be from your 'friends' at the bar and that reminds you of everything you still have to think about now that you have decided to discontinue that lifestyle. You obviously can't work at the bar anymore and you are going to have to stop contacting the girls at work and your other "colleagues". You have not even thought about what you plan to do with your future now. Therapy sessions need to be scheduled but you could not possibly make it through the day if that were all you did, at least not with your sanity. You can't spend all your time at home; it would damage you even more. You can't be with Brittany all the time because she has a life too; she has classes, she has a roommate, she has…groceries to buy and bills to pay. Are you supposed to start studying again? Go back to school? There is a whole world ahead of you but you keep tripping over on the first step, even just thinking about it. Thankfully, Brittany emerges from the bathroom and makes her way back to you, saving you from your dangerous thoughts.

"It's running," she reports, extending her hand for you to grip while you slide off the stool.

You brush past her but notice that Brittany does not keep up with you, surprisingly, so you pause and glance over your shoulder to check what the problem is.

Her eyebrows lift at your stare, "Do you…Oh, do you want me to come with you?"

"Yes," you chuckle quietly, smiling strangely at her for thinking otherwise.

She shakes her head in light embarrassment as you wait for her to take those remaining steps that separate the two of you. You ignore the smirks on Quinn and Tina's faces because you do not have similar thoughts in mind as you take Brittany's hand. She helps you walk without the risk of stumbling or simply losing strength and collapsing to the floor. When you reach the bathroom, you open the door and enter it, tugging Brittany in behind you.

"Lock it," you say and watch her turn around to do exactly what you ordered.

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror before turning to grasp the whole picture. You almost gasp at the sight of this other face, this other person. Her lips are dry and pealing, her face paler than what one would consider normal. The dark patches that strike the skin below her eyes appear demonic against her colorless complexion. Even more so, the protection around her is diminished; one fragile soul battling an army of a thousand men. There is no strength in her gaze, no desire to assume a position of authority she does not have. The girl is you but you do not know her.

"Do I…look like that?" you ask insecurely.

Brittany enters the frame and stands behind you. Her hands gather strands of your loose hair into her palm and bring the whole of it to one side.

"If by _that…_you mean beautiful," she says, blowing softly on the back of your exposed neck.

Your knees almost buckle from her voice alone as it melts your insides into pulpy crimson mush. She looks up and at you in the mirror with shy curves at the corners of her lips. You feel a smile of your own begin to form but you hide it quickly by lowering your eyes from her gaze. Brittany exhales into a quiet laugh, rubbing the sides of your arms soothingly.

"You do look a little worn down, yes," she finally admits, but sweetly enough to avoid upsetting you, "…but you just need better rest, here at home."

You hope she is right and that however you look now will only last until tonight or tomorrow morning. As you take a deep breath, you slowly turn your back on the reflection and face Brittany directly; this view is much better you will have to confess. She is still that perfect amount taller than you with her eyes peering down warmly, features beaming. You especially love those little blinks she takes every ten seconds, as if she keeps forgetting to do the simplest thing because her eyes and her thoughts are too infatuated with you.

"Would you help me?" you ask softly, almost whispering.

She swallows nervously and breaks the gaze, eyes dropping between your bodies to observe how little space there suddenly is. You join and glance down too, watching as she takes a step closer so that your fronts are almost touching. Her cheek brushes past yours and her arms loop through to meet each other again at the small of your back. Your arms consequently lift and steady yourself against her body, like slow dancing. Brittany's fingers tip toe to the hem of your shirt and gently begin to tug it upwards. Once a good portion of your stomach is showing, she flattens her palms against the sides of your torso. The skin on skin contact makes you shudder contently, tingles spreading like waves of warm water through your system. She pushes the shirt up and over your head slowly, tossing it onto the ground a few feet away once it is off.

You can't help but feel chilly now that your upper half is barely covered. Brittany notices because the deep breath you just took was more quivery than usual. Out of concern, she peers up to meet your eyes and search them carefully.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You blink lazily and nod, "I'm good."

Her face softens and a quiet, temperate, smile graces her lips. She resumes her duties moments later, once she decides to stop floating around in the emotion she feels for you. Brittany clears her throat and guides her hands to the front of your jeans. Her body moves forward and leads you to step back against the counter. She tucks her fingers underneath the waistband, knuckles colliding against your skin, and unbuttons the jeans. You brace yourself against the sink and watch Brittany slowly drop to her knees in front of you. She pulls on the material and slides it down your legs, setting the jeans to the side along with your shirt once they are removed.

You are almost entirely exposed now but it does not scare you as much as you thought it would. This is the closest you have physically been to Brittany, to anyone, in a while but you know that the only reason you are handling it so well is because of how slow she is going. Her pace assures you that she is not going to hurt you and that, for you definitely more so than others, is something important. Her touch has the same affect; it promises only care and safety, never power or dominance. Had she been reckless, then you would have panicked, but that is not Brittany and you know that. Furthermore, Brittany has seen all of this before, all of you. In fact, she is the person who has seen the most of you both physically and emotionally. Your mind trusts her mind and your body trusts her body.

She stands back up and clears her throat, hesitant about what to do next with the remainder of your clothing. With each crinkle in her brow, your heart begins to glow and any darkness suddenly becomes illuminated. Her hand comes up and ruffles her hair nervously, eyes finally meeting yours directly.

"Um…would you like me to…" she starts, pointing to your chest.

Instead of responding, you push yourself off the counter and brush past her. You catch her hand and bring her with you so that you are standing in front of the bathtub and she is behind you. You gather your hair in a fist and keep it to one side to expose your back. Brittany understands what you want now that you have made the gesture and presented her with a clear task. The back of her knuckles graze your skin when she reaches for the clasp of your bra. She unhooks it and moves her hands to your shoulders where the straps are. Brittany slowly guides the item down your arms and away from your chest, earning a satisfied exhale from your lips. You decide to remove the rest on your own, which is not much, and take her hand once again for balance as you step into the tub. The hot water stings at first, making you gasp quietly, but you do not stop until your entire body from the neck down is submerged. She kneels down, her hand still in yours, and waits to see if you are going to release it and tell her to leave or ask her to stay. You let go of her hand and let yours sink into the water, but you make sure she does not get the wrong idea.

"Stay," you request, "Please."

Her brow lifts and she presses her lips together, accepting your offer. Brittany shifts from kneeling to sitting down on the floor and aligning her forearms with the rim of the tub. She rests her chin on her hands, eyes still focused deeply on yours. She smiles every once in a while, which you adore, but otherwise refrains from speaking or making any sounds. Without warning her, you reach up and pinch your nose before ducking underwater. When you emerge, you wipe your face and your eyes and smooth your wet and soaking hair back. Your eyes blink open and you can see drops of water hanging from your eyelashes. You bring your knees into your chest and wrap your arms around them to keep. You pay unusual attention to the water and how it has been disturbed. Moments ago it was calm, flat, and it was peaceful but you changed that, broke it even. The ripples, the tiny waves, they cut the smoothness of the water, in the same way something cut the smoothness of you months ago.

You frown lightly at what you have done, eyes studying the continuous breaks in the moving water. Without thinking too much about it, you gradually move your hand and place it above the water. You want to settle it, to calm it down, to cure it from the ache you have caused but it still bounces fiercely. Your hand starts to shake from concentrating it too strictly.

"Hey…" Brittany whispers.

You are thankful for her voice because you sense you were slowly trekking down a dangerous path with those thoughts but now she has pulled you back. You close your eyes briefly, two or three seconds, and then open them to Brittany. Her eyes are a metal blue, midwinter sky, caught between the love she feels and the worry she has. You lower your head to rest the side of your face onto your knees, gazing at her unabated.

"Do you…love me?" you wonder.

Brittany squints at first, eyes narrowing as if making sure she had heard the question correctly. To be honest, you are not entirely sure what the purpose was or where it came from. The thought swooped in randomly and grabbed your attention, despite the fact that you already know the answer. Maybe something inside you, a part of you, wants to hear her say it again. Maybe there is something comforting about the way her voice sounds when those three words leave her lips, the way it sounds different from everything else she says because it is the one thing she knows more than anything in this world.

Awaiting her response, you notice how she blinks slowly and takes a deep breath before answering. It makes you do the same too, inhaling that long and full collection of air into your body but holding it until she decides to voice her thoughts. Thankfully, she does not take too long.

"I do," she says quietly, nodding as she adds the last bit, "…love you."

Now you have permission to release the breath. It floats through you on its way out, warming the path and leaving behind its share of fluttery sensations. Maybe you just needed that, like you said before. Maybe you simply crave the sound of it, the way it makes your heart grow and reach for her.

"Do you love me?" she asks back, humoring you.

Your eyes fall from hers to study the water again. It is calmer now, waves no longer that of a sea storm but more the way a quiet stream trickles along a forest creek. You do not have to think about your answer to her question but you are taking your time because you like knowing that you know it. You like knowing that you love someone the way you love Brittany, that you are still capable of loving so fully and passionately. You know that people who have been through the same struggle as you could have difficulties with that because something like rape ruins the beauty in emotion. It ruins the beauty in feeling anything at all. It ruins the beauty of desire and lust and love because it takes the physical representations of those emotions and changes their nature, poisons it, transforms it into a weapon, a nightmare. That all still applies to you but you also have Brittany. You have had this love for so long, long enough that this one moment six months ago broke everything about you except how you feel about her. If that does not describe the extent and the intensity of your love, then you do not know what possibly will.

"If you're trying to make me nervous then it's really working," Brittany chuckles, suddenly doubtful.

You shake from your thoughts and realize that while you knew that you were taking your time on purpose, Brittany was probably hoping for something quicker and more instinctive. Your answer _is_ instinctive, you knew it right away, but the time was given to let the truth about loving her sink in a little more than it usual. You finally turn to meet her, using the confident, chestnut brown in your eyes to soothe the anxiety that troubles the blizzard blue in hers.

"Loving you is the only thing I still know how to do," you murmur, tightening your grip around your legs as you shrug.

Brittany sighs contently and lowers her chin to rest on her hands that still align with the edge of the tub. She blinks up at you now while she lets the words work their magic. She breathes in and out of the cycle, waiting not for anything more but almost just waiting for it to fade. She does not want it to disappear but that is what she is waiting for; waiting for this moment to tick its last seconds and take its final steps before she can make a new moment and start the process all over again. Something about watching this one girl fall in love with you over the past thirteen years brings you more fulfillment than if ten people were to fall in love with you right now at the same time.

Your response to the growing need pounding inside your chest is reaching out and stroking her hair behind her ear. The droplets of water from your hand are smoothed against her cheek when you let the back of your fingertips linger, wetting her skin lightly. The warmth lasts a few seconds longer, but then you start to think again and when you start to think, you start to feel that weight hook on and drag you down. Your hand gradually slows its strokes and your eyes blur over. Brittany realizes that you are not looking at her anymore but somewhere else, maybe not even a real spot or area but just somewhere…else. She responds by placing her palm against the back of your hand and gripping it to bring it to her lips. Brittany kisses your skin lightly before bringing her hands to her chest and hugging them there securely.

"Your mind is working too hard, babe," she says.

You smile to yourself, but very softly and very faintly that she probably did not catch it.

"Is it your mom?" she follows up.

You shake your head, "No…I'm not thinking about that right now."

"Okay," she nods, "What are you thinking about?"

The question triggers your mind to begin conjuring up an answer. Well, not really an answer but more of a series of thoughts that are now leading to a question of your own; one you would like to ask her.

"Am I different?" you ask timidly.

She frowns faintly at your question, perhaps finding it unexpected and peculiar.

"From before…from high school," you elaborate.

Brittany understands now but her face falls; a doleful transition. She straightens up and lets her hands hang over the edge of the tub, fingertips greeting the surface of the warm water. They elicit tiny swirls into the pattern of the existent waves you were carefully watching moments ago.

"Brittany," you say, reminding her to answer.

She clears her throat and lifts her head up to look directly at you, "Yes, you are."

You nod dejectedly, as if you were anticipating that answer but simultaneously hoped for a better one. A sting ensues behind your eyes but you convince yourself that it is only from the water when you dove under. You start to tremble, maybe from the cool air that hits your skin above water or maybe from the raw nature of this conversation. You are not quite sure which it is, or if it is both, but either way, your hands are unsteady and your lips are numb. Your world suddenly darkens, like maybe the emotion and stress that has accumulated over the past two days have finally decided to make an appearance as one, full, powerful blow to the chest.

"I don't want to be," you admit, still shaking lightly.

Brittany hears the shivered tone of your voice and glances up immediately. She shifts closer and reaches a hand to hold your arm and catch your attention.

"Hey," she hushes, "What's the matter?"

You shake your head, tears gradually blurring your vision and shoulders shrugging helplessly, "I'm so tired, Brittany. I don't want to be like this."

The burn in her eyes clashes with yours when you turn to face her, the lump in your throat scraping higher. The numbness that began at your lips has spread down your neck and arms. You wrap around yourself and dig your fingernails into the blades of your shoulders. The sharp stings last for seconds before disappearing, bittersweet hellos and goodbyes. Your nails begin to peel the thin layer of flesh off your back as you pierce through the skin. Brittany grabs the wrist closest to her and tries to stop it from doing more damage but either you are surprisingly strong or she is afraid of hurting you.

"Santana stop," she pleads, tugging at your hand.

You do not listen but keep scratching instead, your forehead falling to your knees. You shut your eyes tightly, confused but blinded by the torment caused by these feelings; the ones that pretend to evaporate but still linger somewhere nearby, in the dark, waiting, like a predator and its prey. That sums up how you feel sometimes, like you are something's prey, someone's target.

Brittany's hands reach to grab both your wrists and pull them apart, this time forcefully enough to overpower you. Your head hangs in defeat, ready to sink into the pool of water if it were not for Brittany holding you.

"Santana," she whispers, "Listen to me…"

You lift up and face the ceiling, eyes still shut tightly. Your breathing continues erratically, but you try hard to establish a steadier pattern. It takes a while before you can stabilize it but you do eventually, with focused thoughts and a determined heart. Once you gather strength, you level you head back down and open your eyes.

"You're still you," she says, "Somewhere in there, I know it, okay?"

You decide to trust her on that because it is far better than anything you are thinking right now. Maybe the real you is still here, inside this person somewhere, and you just have not been looking hard enough. That is what you hope for at least; you hope you do not have to rebuild an entirely new person because the old one, the real one, was damaged beyond repair, a broken mirror with its shattered pieces. If Brittany heard that she would tell you that mirrors can be fixed. She would tell you that a mirror is just like a person essentially, because you can put the pieces of a mirror back together like you can put the pieces of a person back together but just like a repaired mirror will always have cracks, a healed person will always have scars.

Her words still heighten the intensity inside you, causing you to slowly drop your forehead to your knees again, shaking your head helplessly. The skin around your eyes feels swollen and irritated.

"Talk to me," she requests as you feel her hand stroke your wet hair.

You continue to reject her, "I'm scared to talk about it."

Your voice echoes softly in the cave between your legs and your chest, the cave you immerse yourself in. You sniff and breathe smoothly, peacefully exchanging air between you and this confined, dark space. Your eyes open into it, into the darkness, and you like it for now but only because the light from before was too harsh, too sharp. It was cutting the edges of your vision and forcing you to see the world you despise, so the darkness, right now, is good. Right now, the darkness is not as scary as it normally is. You do not quite know what terrifies you exactly; it could be a specific thing, it could be everything. It is one thing to live alongside a great fear but it is something else entirely to live along twenty of them, to encounter a threat down each path you take, no matter what direction. In fact, sometimes having a greatest fear is healthy because it marks a challenge, it teaches you about yourself, and it gives you something to conquer. When you have so many of them, showing up at all the same times or all different times; that is when it becomes unhealthy. Challenges become too impossible, lessons become tyrannies and you become a slave to the darkness and, as you know, darkness is not always scary, but it has _always _controlled you.

"I met a girl once," Brittany says spontaneously, her voice calm and quiet, almost whispering, "She was so…gosh, she was beautiful. And I…I wanted to know her, I was so interested but I wasn't sure why. Something about her was different, she was so…real and I wanted to figure it out, I wanted to hold it, I wanted to love it."

Your eyes widen and blink as the story progresses because you know that path it is on. You have walked it before, once before. Inside your chest, your heart quickens, and not at the uncontrollable rate but at the best kind of rate; the fluttery one, the warm one, the one that both keeps you grounded _and _sets you free.

"So I went up to her one day…she was sitting at in the grass, flipping through a Spiderman comic…and I said…" she continues, but slows towards the end.

You emerge from the dark to say it before she can, "I like your bag."

The words leave your lips without much thought beforehand; they were words of impulse, of spontaneity, but words you knew by heart, words permanently inked to your memory. You slowly turn to face her and notice the way her lips curve and she nods lightly.

"I like your bag," she repeats with a sigh, "Spiderman was on it too."

"That was me," you remind her, but more for the purpose of just stating it out loud, making it known to the world.

"It was," she nods, reaching out to brush a lonely tear from your cheek with the pad of her thumb, a gentle touch to soothe the sting.

"Why are you telling me this?" you wonder, frowning softly.

"That same day, when you were showing me your comics, you told me you were as strong…as brave…and as fearless as Spiderman," Brittany reveals, and the memory clicks, "Do you remember that?"

The image of you and Brittany sitting on the grass that day you met paints itself on the canvas of your imagination. You keep exploring it, pushing the boundaries to capture more of the memory, more of that day and everything it looked like. You remember the tree that you were leaning against. You remember the other kids playing on the playground. You remember the little blonde, crystal eyed girl standing in front of you with a smile both sweet and timid; the girl with whom you would soon fall so deeply in love. Then the image is snatched away. Everything gone, faster than you were prepared for, faster than you could say goodbye. You blink desperately as you try to bring it back but its gone and your left with just the bathtub, the water swaying and that same blonde eyed girl beside you but not the same you.

"I'm not that girl anymore," you confess, tears rapidly blurring your vision, "I can't be her, Brittany."

Brittany looks at you sadly, face falling with the vulnerable tone of your voice. It must be frustrating for her to watch you tear yourself apart and not be able to do anything about it, at least not anything permanent. Brittany can fix a lot of the little cuts and bruises but the truth about this one problem, and you have just realized this now, is that she just can't heal you the way you need to be healed. As much as you want her magic to work forever, it won't, and you know that because this is not something minor. This is not a cut or a bruise; it is an open, rotting, flesh wound that will continue to spread if it is not treated. She sees that she cannot possibly offer you the professional help but only the small, yet equally crucial, bits in between, and that upsets her and, in turn, that exhausts you.

You are so tired of constantly upsetting yourself and the people around you. It feels horrible to be the person people tip toe around. It feels horrible to be the person who puts conversations to an end when they enter a room. It feels horrible to be known in their minds the person who was raped. It feels horrible to be you.

"But I'd give anything," you say through a quiet sob, "…anything to be her again."

Your head falls back against the wall behind you, eyes stinging and throat swelling, but after trying for some time now to suppress the tears, you finally let it go. You release your tense muscles and stop holding on because it takes too much out of you, more than you can replenish later. Your body sinks a few inches deeper into the water with your arms coming around to wrap around yourself securely.

"Does it matter who you were?" Brittany murmurs, but your eyes remain closed, "I know you'd give anything to not be this person with this…horrible thing that happened to you but that isn't going to change no matter how hard you or anyone tries. The girl you used to be was amazing and, no, you can't be her again, but you don't have to. You just have to be you, whoever you want to be now. You have a lot to fight against Santana, but you're going to fight it because that's what you do. You've always fought for the things that mattered and you matter. I don't know if you realize that but you matter so much, Santana."

Your eyes open slowly, gazing upwards at the ceiling. The tears still hinder the clarity of your vision but the more you blink, the less blurry it becomes. She makes it sound possible, like you might actually have a shot at beating this. Brittany has always given you hope and, with everything you have been through, you realize that it is one of the most valuable things to receive but one of the rarest to receive effectively. Nobody quite offers hope the way Brittany does. It is so easy to tell someone that things will be okay, that things will get better, but getting the person to believe is almost impossible. Everyone fails at it except Brittany and all because she does not give you blatant, meaningless hope in the form of condolences. She gives you an image, a thought, a world in which she knows you can picture in your head and one you can reach for if you put your mind to it. She takes what seems impossible and translates it into language that you understand, that you feel comfortable with, that you can believe. You would call her your guardian angel but she is not really that at all because she is human. She is so human and that is the best part about her. She is this person that you can touch, you can hold, you can spend the rest of your life with yet she has these beautiful abilities that are so powerful that they almost feel supernatural, like they do not belong in this world.

You finally turn to face her with your head still leaning against the wall. A tear breaks from the corner of your eye and slides down your cheek before dropping into the water, eliciting a series of identical rings that fade as they grow.

"I just want to be me," you confess through a wounded whisper, "Whoever that is."

Brittany shifts forward and reaches to cradle your face gently. She leans in to place a kiss on your forehead; you eyes flutter shut when her warm lips meet your chilled skin. She lingers briefly before pulling away to rest her own forehead to yours.

"You will be," she breathes out.

You give time for the words to settle into your system, to put out the flames and treat all the burns. You long for the day when Brittany does not have to say things because she has to keep you calm, to keep you from falling apart. You long for the day she says the things she wants to without being afraid that it is too much for you to handle, the things she truly feels in their entirety, at their highest intensity. You might not be ready for it now, but that does not mean you do not want to be. You dream about the day people stop walking on eggshells around you, the day you stop fearing everything that moves. But you have to start somewhere, right? Maybe that is today.

"Come on," Brittany says with a little more energy, "Let's get you out."

Her body separates from you as she stands, extending her hands down and palms faced up for you to take. You sniff and stay in position for a moment, breathing deeply once more. When you finally place your hands in hers and stand, the sound of the water falling from your body startles you. The drops hit the surface like an abrupt, sudden downfall of rain, in and out, over and done with after a few seconds. You glance around and watch it pour down like a waterfall, gliding down your skin before diving into the pool below you. Brittany shifts back to make room for you as you step out of the bathtub. She lets go of one of your hands and reaches for the closest towel, bringing it back to wrap around you. Before she can tighten the corner of it so it stays, you fall into her. Your arms slide through hers and reach up to grip her shoulders blades from behind. You step up on your tip toes and rest your chin on her shoulder, breathing out and closing your eyes. She reciprocates the embrace and it is the first time you have held her this way in days. Her body envelopes you and holds you as firmly as she knows how without being too strong.

"Thank you," you murmur.

"You'll be okay," she tells you, "I got you."

You take in a deep breath because when Brittany says that, it is only because she knows it wholeheartedly. She has never been the type to use that phrase lightly, to make you or anyone feel better, because she does not believe in saying things that she does not know or making promises she cannot keep. So if Brittany tells you that you are going to be okay, then you can trust her enough to know that you _will _be okay. Again, it may not feel like it now because your throat still swells and your heart still beats rapidly, but maybe soon. She promises you this and Brittany never promises lightly.

After moments of silence, she finally breaks away and looks down at you. She brushes back your wet hair so it does not fall over your eyes and face.

"You ready?" she asks kindly.

You nod, sighing heavily, and wait for her to take your hand and lead you to the door. With a slow twist, she opens it and walks out with you trailing behind, head down and face hidden from the others.

"Everything okay?" Tina asks, probably noticing the way you are purposely trying to avoid them.

She stops in front of your door and lets you enter the bedroom first since you are unprepared to face them. You do not close the door behind you but you turn and hide yourself in the corner of your room where they can't see you from outside but where you can still eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Everything's fine," she answers sincerely.

"Oh…okay," Tina responds but you can tell by her suspicious tone that she does not quite believe it.

"Listen, we're just going to stay in her room for a bit," Brittany explains, "She's still a little overwhelmed to be home and all."

"Sure," Tina says, "Quinn and I don't have any plans for the rest of the day so we'll be here or in our rooms if you need us."

"Thanks, Tina," Brittany says sweetly.

Brittany walks into your room soon enough and finds you again, closing the door once everything is settled. She pinches the front of her shirt and lifts it off of her skin, trying to dry it out after it got wet during the hug in the bathroom. You turn and walk to your drawers, pulling out a light sweater and returning with it for her to take.

"I'm sorry about…your shirt," you apologize and wait for her to take it.

"Don't worry about it," she says, smiling gently, "Let's get you dressed first."

She moves to set down what you gave her on the bed and walks over to the drawers you were just browsing through. She picks out what you are going to wear and, in the meantime, you retreat to your bed and sit down on it, securing your towel around you more. Brittany comes back with a large t-shirt and another pair of sweatpants, along with a pair of underwear. She hands you the t-shirt first and you slide it over your head, standing up and letting it fall past your knees. You tug the towel free and remove it from underneath the shirt. The underwear and pants come next, and once your done you use the towel to dry out your hair.

"Squeaky clean," she says, grinning.

You smile softly at her but feel weight immediately attach to it and drag your lips back down. Another thing you wish would stop happening; the weight and the gravity always sucking you back into the past.

"Your turn," you tell her.

She nods and stands up too, reaching the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head. Your eyes catch the exposed skin and linger there. Her stomach muscles contract and you can't help but stare until she slides the sweater on and revokes the privilege. You shake your head and turn away shyly, walking past her with your towel so you can hang it on the back of the chair near your desk. As you approach it, you notice the gap in the middle drawer. Suddenly, you remember what is in this room. Without much thought, you put down the towel and reach for the knob to pull the drawer open further. The bags are there, just like you left them. You reach in and take one, feeling the plastic in your hand but the sudden urge to open it and pour out the stuff that it carries. The horrible part about this, though, is that you do not want to pour it down the drain, you want to pour it into a line. There is a growl in your stomach that encourages you to pop open the small bag and just do it right here, right now, regardless of the company but then you snap out of it.

"Brittany," you panic.

Seconds later, she arrives next to you and gasps quietly. The bag is in your hand but your hand is frozen. Your eyes are fixated on the white powder, torn between the two voices in your head and their clashing desires.

"Santana," she says slowly but gently.

You look up at her and swallow nervously. She nods and extends her hand to you, waiting for you to hand it over. You promised her you were not a drug addict but now you feel guilty on almost every level because there is so much fighting against you and so little to support your claim. There are two of them here; one in the drawer and the one in your hand. If you give them to her, what is she going to do? Throw them out? But…

"I…" you stutter, knowing that your inability to hand them over right away is enough for Brittany see who you really are.

Sadness washes over her and while she would never admit it right now, you can see how disappointed she is. Brittany trusted you when you begged her to take rehab out of the picture and now you have just proved that it was all to manipulate her onto your side. You were unconscious of it at the time because you really thought you could do it on your own but the force that clawed so hungrily inside you when you saw the drugs is enough proof. You are an addict. That infuriates you. Your stomach boils, heating you with self destructive rage. You look back at the drug and drop it onto the carpet. You turn quickly and walk the opposite direction, hands finding their way into your damp hair and tugging roughly.

"Fuck," you curse, turning to a wall and punching it suddenly.

Pain bursts at your knuckles and spreads to the rest of your hand shortly afterwards.

"No, no, no, stop," Brittany says quickly, rushing over to you.

She reaches for both your hands and puts them together with hers, like she had in the bathroom, and tells you to focus on her.

"Look at me, Santana," she orders, "Can you look at me?"

You do as she says and find her eyes, again that midwinter blue.

"What do you need me to do?" she asks, releasing your wrists and moving to cup your face calmly.

"Throw them out," you answer immediately, shutting your eyes temporarily.

"Okay," Brittany responds, "I'll throw them out."

She backs up carefully and returns to the table, scooping the bag off the floor. She starts to leave but you know you have to tell her about the other one.

"Wait, there's," you start, pausing with hesitance before forcing the words out, "The drawer…"

Brittany turns and looks inside to find the other bag. From then on, you can only hear her movements because you decided to turn away to make the process easier. Brittany opens the door and steps outside, confronting Tina and Quinn once again. Once she has left, you turn around and notice she left a small crack between rooms. When you pass by, you see that Brittany is talking to Quinn and they both move towards the bathroom together. You reach out and shut the door slowly, pushing your palm flat against the wood until there is a click. You turn around and lean against the wall to stare at the entirety of your room and all the white that it holds. You never had much in here besides your furniture and you stuck to the color white because that makes everything appear simple and neat. After moments of soaking it up as a whole, you push off the door and walk to stand in the middle of the room. For some reason, you become conscious of your surroundings; not in a fearful way but more or less in an absent kind of way. Your eyes wander aimlessly around the room, visually touching every surface and material. Maybe your mind is trying to distract you from the drugs, or maybe more from what the three of them are _doing_ to those drugs in the bathroom.

You pause when you end up facing your bed. Since it is in the path of the window, faint light falls onto the pillows and sheets. Before attempting to lie down, your feet slowly begin to make their way towards the window, eyes locked in determination. You stand in front of it, looking out at the buildings scraping the sky, looking down at the wheels and feet staining the streets. Moments go by and you have had enough, heard enough, and reach for both sides of the curtain and close them. The room darkens and soothes you. The bed feels soft and comforting too once you climb on it and lie down. You turn to your side and rest your head on the pillow, allowing the cotton to engulf your thoughts and cloud your reality. It would have lasted longer and you would have relished in it but the faint noise of the toilet flushing, the water through the pipes, caught your attention. After some time, though you can't say how much, the door creaks open and somebody enters the room. You already know it is Brittany without needing to look and when the door clicks again, you know the room has been returned to you and her again. Seconds later, she walks into your vision and kneels down beside the bed to meet your eye level. She tilts her head to the side and reaches to tuck a few fallen strands of hair away from your eyes.

"It's done," she reports, maintaining her affectionate gesture.

You swallow nervously but channel the guilt about the drugs into a deeper and darker part of you where it is less intense and just numb. You slowly lift yourself up and sit on the bed, watching as she climbs onto the edge too.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Santana," she begins to say, but you do not want to hear the rest.

"I know," you say, shutting your eyes to avoid her disappointed glare, "I know. I'm sorry. I forgot about it and I should have mentioned it before we got back but I just…I forgot."

"No," she interrupts, scooting closer and reaching out for your hand, "It's okay. Don't worry about that, I know it's hard. I'm not judging you."

You open your eyes at her strangely, doubting the truth in her words, "You're…not?"

She smiles kindly and shakes her head, "No, never."

You release a tense breath and sink into your seat, evidently revealing to Brittany how nervous you had been seconds ago. She strokes the pads of her fingertips against the back of your hand, causing you to look up and meet her eyes. They have transformed from that pale blue tint to an early afternoon summer sky blotted with quiet clouds. Did you ever mention that you could spend forever in her eyes, however cheesy that sounds? Because you really could. She can tell the story of you and her with a look; it is all there and it is all you really need.

As she continues to stroke your hand, you twist it around and catch hers. You place your palms together and intertwine your fingers, tugging so that she comes closer towards you. Your eyes search hers thoroughly, exploring every edge and cliff and mountain and path they hold. She smiles at you warmly, leaning in to you. Her lips brush against your forehead and linger there for a while, taking a deep breath. She cups the back of your neck to press a kiss to your forehead and makes it last. Your eyes flutter shut, hand coming up to grip her arm. Your heart stumbles around a few times, tripping over its own beats.

It continues even after she breaks away and draws her head back to level with you. There is a moment between the two of you, a gently honest yet equally passionate gaze, before you let your eyes wander down to her lips. She notices and tucks her bottom lip into her mouth. By now, with the proximity, Brittany and you are sharing the same air, breathing in and out collaboratively as one entity rather than two individuals. The corners of her lips curve upwards in the smallest way that had you not been paying attention, you would have missed entirely. But you are, and that little reaction across her mouth makes your stomach shift both nervously and eagerly. The anticipation grows, spreading around your system, even bursting in a few places. With no intention to postpone it any longer, you close the gap between you and Brittany. Your lips capture hers softly, feeling the smoothness collide along the skin. She breathes in deeply when the kiss begins and strengthens her grip on your neck, pulling you closer against her mouth.

Your heart throws itself against your chest, causing you to take a little more precaution with the speed. You are still moving slowly, aware that the last time you kissed Brittany like this, at home on this bed, you had one of those panic attacks. Although, you think that you have made progress over the past few days because you were able to kiss her in the hospital and you were able to let her undress you in the bathroom. Because of those facts, you take the initiative and deepen the kiss, feeling her tongue brush over yours naturally. Your hands reach for her sweater and fist the material, tugging her on top of you as you lower back down onto the bed with your lips still attached. Her hands leave your neck to press into the mattress beside your head, keeping her propped up above you. Brittany gradually pulls away and breaks the kiss, causing your eyes to flutter open. Her breathes are quick but they only draw attention to how much quicker yours are. You had not even realized the accelerated rise and fall of your chest until you take a look down between your bodies. Brittany places a hand against your cheek to bring you back to her eyes.

"I'm fine," you say, but the moment it leaves your lips you know it was a lie.

"I won't," she whispers, eyes burning into yours, "We're not ready."

She shakes her head, careful not to upset you. Even if you were thinking of having sex with Brittany, which you honestly were not (yet), you know it would not be the smartest thing to do. You have been with other people since the rape, though you do not really know why or how you managed to do that, but this is Brittany and with Brittany it is always different. There is always more to feel and more to lose. The sex you have had since then was worth nothing and felt like nothing, but if you were to then suddenly experience something beautifully overwhelming and sensational before being completely ready; it could throw you off and set you all the way back to the start. She could tear you apart and it would not be her fault, it would just be the fault of the decision you both made to go through with it. So she is right about this, about right now.

"Kiss me," you tell her, still breathing heavily.

"Santana…"

"I know. Not yet," you interrupt, taking a deep breath as you soak up her burning gaze, "But would you just…kiss me?"

Brittany blinks nervously, studying your eyes to make sure you mean what you say and that you understand her position in all of this. You really do and you agree with her. You do not want to be with Brittany that way tonight or tomorrow or for a while. Not until it becomes something you do not have to worry about. Not until you can touch her and she can touch you without causing damage. Not until the idea of 'being intimate' feels okay in your mind, feels comforting rather than scary. Brittany sees that when she looks at you; she understands how you really feel and that is what allows her to do what you asked of her.

She leans down slowly until her lips hover above yours. The heat of the moment clouds your mind so you close your eyes and breathe in the same air she breathed out. She lingers but only because she does not want to move too quickly. You should have known that Brittany would be reluctant when it comes to intimacy with you. It does not surprise you how careful and slow she is. Knowing that someone hurt you the way that man did means that she will always kiss with the softest lips, caress with the softest touch and love with the softest heart; nothing more, nothing less. You are grateful for Brittany because your past has molded you for a certain kind of softness and hers happens to be the only type that fits perfectly.

"Yes," she whispers before closing the distance and sealing the kiss.

* * *

Nothing woke you up in particular, but maybe the combination of the faint noise from traffic and the quiet rush of chilled air hovering above your skin had something to do with it. Your eyes slowly open but confront a dark room rather than a light one. Time passed quickly and you must have slept into the night. The last thing you remember is lying down with Brittany behind you, cuddling you from behind while you rest. At that thought, you impulsively draw your hand up to your waist; the same place you recall Brittany's hand draping over. To your disappointment, it is not there and instead you only feel the skin between the end of your shirt and the start of your sweatpants.

You sigh dejectedly and turn onto your back with a huff, seeing clearly that your bed is empty. The ceiling greets you coldly, as it always does. The small amount of light that seeps through the gap in the curtain draws a beam of neon color across the white canvas above you. It is the only source of light that you see right now, slicing the ceiling in half from one corner to the other. You trace along its path and that leads you to discover another light; the small crack someone must have left in the door.

Without moving too fast, you muster the strength to push yourself up to sit. Your hands comb through you messy hair and straighten it out before brushing it to one side. You rub your eyes roughly, pressing them into their sockets with force so that when you open them again, it takes a few seconds for the stars to disappear and your vision to restore itself once again. You squint and investigate the light in more detail, leaning forward to realize that Brittany must have left while you were sleeping. Before you can think further, the same chill that may have woken you up returns and makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Light shivers run down your back and arms, causing you to slowly shift off the bed and find a sweater in your wardrobe. You pull it over you and snuggle into its warmth, stretching the end of the sleeves over your fingers so they are completely covered.

You move towards the door at a slow pace, curious to know what is going on outside your room. The lights are still on which means that Tina and Quinn, or either one of them, must be out there and that it should not be too late considering they are still awake and it is a school night. As you approach, you begin to hear voices and they become more distinct the closer you get. By the time you reach the door, you can make out what they are saying.

"I'm still…trying to picture it."

That was Quinn.

"It's not that hard."

The voice catches your immediate attention. You freeze; your heart stops for a split second and your breath stays lodged in your throat. You recognize the melody of this voice by heart and even though you have to strain a little to hear their distant voices, you know for sure that it is not Tina but it is Brittany. You brace yourself against the wall beside the door so that your ear is as close to the crack as it can get without you leaving the room and they realizing you are awake. While you started to breathe normally again, your heart still pounds like it would when someone sits you down to tell you something important.

"That's easy for you to say," Quinn responds, "You've been picturing it since you were a kid."

You frown, curious to know what they are referring to.

"Yeah well," Brittany says slowly.

"I know you said you didn't really want to talk about it," Quinn continues, "But can I just ask? How were you going to do it?"

You retract, frowning even deeper and squinting in confusion. Do what? You step that much closer to the crack and make sure that you are not breathing too loudly. When Brittany chuckles and clears her throat, your heart picks up the pace.

"I really didn't have it planned that far, Quinn," Brittany answers, "It was just something I had in mind, something I was hoping to do because I didn't want to spend another day without her."

A thought pops into your head but you push it away quickly, finding it ridiculous and surely not what they could be talking about.

"I didn't have a whole romantic scene planned with tricks and grand gestures," she continues to explain, "Hell, I just wanted to marry her. I didn't care about the setup, I just wanted to ask her and hear her say yes and then carry on from there, live our lives the way we used to talk about when we were younger."

A breath catches in your throat, almost causing you to choke on your own air. Your eyes shoot open bizarrely and your heart is either working too fast or not working at all because you can barely feel it. The only thing in your chest is a faint numbness from realizing what the 'it' in their conversation was. You keep trying to replay the voice in your head to find a mistake, a mispronunciation of some sort, because she could not have said what you think you heard. Brittany does not…no, she would have told you something like this. She would have mentioned it...she doesn't want to…no, you heard incorrectly. You must have.

"But like I said before," Brittany finishes, "She has to get better. I love Santana, I really do but she's…she's so unstable, Quinn. She can barely keep her head up sometimes. I don't know when she's going to fall apart but I know that it can happen at any second and I have to make sure I'm ready to catch her. I believe in her and I believe she is stronger than she thinks, even now, but this...god, this thing just keeps beating her down and she shouldn't have to deal with it. She shouldn't have to fight this kind of thing, I hate it. I wish I could change it."

"But you can't, Britt," Quinn responds immediately, firmly, "You can't think like that. You can't think that you can change what happened."

"I know but…" Brittany struggles, "She's the love of my life. She's everything to me. I'm supposed to protect her and I didn't do that. I didn't protect her."

"You couldn't have," Quinn says, "This is not anybody's fault. It's not yours, it's not mine, it's not Tina's, and most of all, it's not Santana's. I feel horrible about saying this but the ugly truth is that it just happened. These things happen and they hurt. They ruin. But they happen. And it happened to our best friend and we can't change that, but we can help her try to beat it. You know all this already, you just have to stop letting these small moments of weakness mess with you."

You blink, but find your eyelashes are now soaked. Now that you are back in your own head, you feel the sting behind your eyes and the uncontrollable beating in your chest. You begin to pant heavily and push off the wall to move back into the center of the room. Hoping to clear your airway a little, you throw your head back and take deeper, slower breaths, but it does not really help with the swelling of your throat. That was a little too much information to receive in the span of three or so minutes. You do not even want to think about what you heard let alone make sense of it. Everything is coming at you too fast, with too much intimidation and power. It practically knocks you onto the bed; the back of your knees hit the edge unexpectedly. You spin around with a gasp and assess your surroundings, eyeing the corners of the room anxiously. You climb onto the bed and immediately tuck yourself under the sheets. You will stay here for now. Here is good. Here is safe. Here is where you can try to close your eyes and un-hear what was heard, forget what was understood, because as far as they know, you are still sleeping.

* * *

**A/N: Hey! Hope you all are doing well and that you enjoyed the chapter. Just a heads up, things will be moving faster now in the story. Chapters used to be pretty much a day long but now they'll probably cover more. It doesn't mean more content, just quicker pace. I hope that makes sense. Also, I know the chapter may have started off strangely but it is right, you did not miss a chapter or anything. I simply chose to skip forward. Anyways, thank you all for reading and I hope you have a wonderful day...or night, wherever you are :) **

P.S. I completely forgot to add these in my last author's note so, I know it probably doesn't matter now but here are the translations for the Spanish I used in the last chapter** (Chapter 14)**. Again, I'm so sorry I forgot. Hopefully it didn't detract too much from your comprehension.

**Soy tú mamá, Santana:** _I am your mother, Santana._

**Santana, ten cuidado con lo que dices:**_ Santana, be careful with what you say. (almost like: watch your mouth)_

**¡No lo puedo creer!:** _I can't believe it._

**¿Cómo sucedió esto? ¿Qué hago mal? Eres una niña tan difícil, siempre eras:**_ How did this happen? What did I do wrong? You are such a difficult child, you always have been._

**Vete, por favor, Mamá. No te quiero aquí:** _Go, please, Mom. I don't want you here._


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Trigger warning for the theme of suicide but it merely brought up, not ensued. Nothing is attempted or carried out and nobody is hurt in that form. There is also a**** warning for a disturbing abstract nightmare in case that is an issue for anyone.**

* * *

**Chapter 16: False Start, Grand Finish**

The darkness swallows the light in one loud, explosive, gulp and shatters the current universe. Your heart jolts and your eyes shoot open into a room lit by natural sunlight. The initial burn from exposing yourself to such raw brightness so abruptly lasts for another minute but then the therapeutic blinking can finally stop and you can begin to see clearly. You glance around the room, finding it empty and the space in your chest increasingly limited.

"What?" you breathe out quietly, still scanning the area.

The wake up was sudden enough that you haven't been able to process anything. In a way, it feels like a lucid dream in reverse where instead of your mind working and your body paralyzed, it's your body that can move and your mind the one incapable of functioning. You can't figure out which one is more frightening, but then again you can't figure out anything else for the matter.

You grab the end of the blanket and pull it off your legs, swinging them over so you can stand. When your feet touch the ground and you push off the bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you and causes a shift in balance. You instinctively brace yourself against the bed and wait out the head rush, shutting your eyes tightly. With a little more time and a few more panicky thoughts, your mind begins to catch up and aids the rest of you. There was a dream before you woke up, something dark and obscure. You don't remember it well but whatever it was, it must have been scary enough to wake you up in such an aggressive manner.

As you stand by the window and look out, you see the usual traffic and people on the street which is normal behavior so that puts you at ease. You give time for the honks and the distant sounds of collective voices reach your ears and reinstall that comfort. You like the city. You like the sound of the city because it drowns out the excruciating silence that often lingers in the gaps of your thoughts. You stay here, at the window, for a little while longer because anything that can make you feel comfortable is something worth being around.

Like Brittany.

You frown at the thought, suddenly confused with her whereabouts. Brittany. Why does it feel like you aren't remembering something about her? You back away from the window and run a few fingers through your hair and then a door opens, but not yours—the front door…in the living room. You spin around, fingers now at your lips. The door closes seconds later and you hear footsteps. Is that Tina? Or Quinn? Quinn. Brittany and Quinn. That is the last thing you remember before falling asleep. They were out there talking about you. Brittany was talking about you and she mentioned something. It still doesn't come back in one piece.

You walk towards the door, not eagerly but hesitantly, your heart launching itself at the walls of your chest with each step. You reach out and grip the doorknob, twisting it slowly. With one quick motion, you pull it open and freeze. The small crease between rooms, like the one you were listening through last night, exposes you to the distinct sound of a plastic bag being ruffled and searched through. With careful movements, you open the door wider and step out into the living room. Quinn is in the kitchen, emptying items from a grocery bag and placing them into the fridge. Her back is facing you so she has yet to hear or see that you have left your room.

Without much thought, you clear your throat and take a few more steps into the living room and towards the kitchen. Quinn straightens and turns to find you approaching the counter. Her face lights up, a kind smile forming across her mouth.

"Hey," she greets, stepping to the opposite side of the counter from you.

"Hi," you say, still shaken up.

"Good sleep?" she asks, flattening her palms around the coffee mug in her hands.

"Too much, I think," you answer quietly.

"Yeah, you've been sleeping a lot…lately," she says suspiciously before taking a sip from her cup.

You decide to ignore the comment and look around the apartment, still wondering where Tina and Brittany are.

"Coffee?" Quinn asks.

"Uh," you stutter, "Yeah, yes. Thanks."

Quinn offers a thin smile before she prepares you a cup of coffee. Your eyes drop to your lap to observe your wringing hands but question why they are so anxious. You begin to feel more uncomfortable all of a sudden, like there is an itch under your skin and no matter where scratch, it won't go away. You are also hungry. Your entire stomach feels like it's been sucked dry and deprived like a desert in a drought; you need to eat something.

You stand up from the stool and make your way to the fridge without notifying Quinn. You feel her eyeing you as you dig through and gather what looks appetizing, which is everything. You swipe a banana, both cartons of raspberries and blueberries and two strawberry yogurts. Whilst carrying those items, you shift sideways to pick up the box of granola cereal and also manage to pull open the drawer beneath for a spoon. You can't possibly fetch a bowl too with everything you are juggling in your arms so you move back to your stool and set it all down neatly on the counter. On your way to get the bowl, you meet Quinn's bizarre stare and pause.

"What?" you ask.

She chuckles, "Do you need help?"

"Oh…no," you say, waving her off, "No, I'm good."

You retrieve that bowl you needed and end up back in your stool, admiring all the food you gathered. There is no right way to start so you just begin by opening the cartons of berries and pouring them into the bowl. Next, you peel the banana and slice it into pieces with your spoon, adding it to the mix. The granola cereal comes afterwards and you almost fill the bowl because you think you could eat the entire box. You finally empty out both yogurts and mix it around with your spoon, stuffing the first scoop in your mouth eagerly. You chew quickly but gulp it down slowly once you notice Quinn's stare again. She is leaning against another counter by the coffee maker, smirking.

"No, no…keep going," she mocks.

"I will," you say with half a mouthful of yogurt and fruit.

Quinn hums suddenly, as if she remembered something, so you draw your eyes back to her. She pushes herself off and walks to the end of your counter where a piece of paper lies, white and ripped along one edge. Surprisingly, you hadn't even noticed it was there until Quinn addressed it herself. Your chewing gradually comes to a stop and you frown at the letter from a distance before it ends up right in front of you, dangling from Quinn's hand.

"Brittany stopped by before she left for school," Quinn informs, "…wrote this for you."

You study it eagerly and long enough before lowering your spoon down and taking the note from her. Your name is on it and you recognize the handwriting. Even before reading it, the slightly disturbed nature of your composure fades. You forget about what was harassing your mind or how you woke up this morning and focus on the beginning of the note.

_Santana,_

_Last night, I went to the bathroom but I didn't want to risk climbing back into bed and waking you up. After how tired you said you were, I wasn't going to interrupt. I decided to go home for the night since I hadn't been back and I had to arrange some things for class today. I came by this morning on my way to school but Quinn said you were still sleeping. You know I would rather be there with you but I made you that promise about staying in school and plus Quinn said she would be home for most of the day so you weren't going to be alone. I will give you a call after my first class today but please, please, call me if you need anything. I love you._

_- Brittany._

You don't even think much about what she said because the note itself, the gesture of her writing anything to you at all, is enough to make you sigh contently. You set it down and feel the rest of your conscious relax because now you at least know she is at school as opposed to having packed up her bags and ran as far away from here as possible. It sounds stupid in your head but it's based off of a fear you have had since the moment you met Brittany; the fear that she would one day leave you. Even small moments like this morning—waking up without her—is enough to trigger that scary idea, to start conjuring up hundreds of irrational thoughts about you doing something wrong to make her leave or not doing enough to make her stay. With this letter, though, you know she is coming back.

"She has some important thing today," Quinn adds, "That's what she told me last night."

Suddenly it clicks and you remember that they were talking last night and you were listening. It still feels like a blur, possibly even a dream, but you know too well and clearly that you woke up and stood by the door. You remember the small crease and the way you stuck your ear next to it. You remember Quinn asking Brittany something and you remember Brittany saying—you choke on your food when the memory finally restores completely.

"Whoah," Quinn says, approaching you, "Slow down."

You cough a few more times to clear your throat, feeling your eyes water from the process. When you settle down, you wipe your face and dive into the swarm of thoughts. Brittany wants to marry you. Everything about that sentence scares you and excites you at the same time but you can't figure out what it means. What you do understand is that you need to figure out how you feel about it before you say or do something stupid, something you will regret, because knowing you and your mouth, things could very well take a turn for the worst. The other problem is the fact that in order to figure out how you feel about this, you need to figure out how to _listen_ to how you feel and that alone is something you have trouble doing. It's overwhelming to think about now, like you no longer have room for more thoughts because new ones keep cramming in.

"Uhh," you mumble, suddenly standing from your stool, "I'm just…gonna get some fresh air."

"Huh?" Quinn says as you begin to walk towards the front door.

"Yeah, I just feel like going out for a bit," you explain.

"What do you mean?" Quinn asks, suddenly moving to stand in front of the door.

You eye her strangely before using one foot to drag your sandals to your feet and slide them on. Your thoughts are all over the place and you feel a little like you are floating through time. It feels like the in-between of two states of being, in limbo, and maybe it's because you are mostly in your head yet still a sliver of attention is paid to reality. For example, you know that Quinn is blocking the door but you try to walk past regardless and end up bumping into her.

"Santana," Quinn says, reaching out for your arm, "Hey…hey, what are you doing?"

"I-I need to think, Quinn," you say honestly.

"About what?" she asks, "Do you wanna to talk about it? Do you wanna sit down and tell me?"

You frown, shaking your head, "No…I don't wanna—Quinn, I just want to think and I can't…think in here sometimes."

You step forward and reach for the doorknob but she blocks your attempt once again. You sigh and retract, crossing your arms over your chest.

"I can't…let you go out, Santana," Quinn says timidly.

"Excuse me?" you respond.

"I mean…you just got out of the hospital yesterday," she reminds you.

You stare at her through narrow eyes, knowing she isn't to blame for wanting you to stay under supervision but still not liking the idea that she is right. You really shouldn't be leaving the house so soon but you have not been outside in so long and with the wakeup call you had plus the information from last night, you would like to be alone and you want to do that somewhere other than here. There is just something about the apartment that confines you, keeps you closed off and left to breathe the same recycled air. You don't understand why she is making a huge deal out of you leaving for half an hour or so. Maybe Quinn thinks you are going to end up somewhere you shouldn't be, somewhere dangerous. That actually hadn't occurred to you; the places you could end up going and the things they have there.

"Do you want me to call Brittany?" Quinn asks carefully.

No. Not Brittany. She is the reason you need to leave right now; she and that beautiful mouth of hers saying things that you shouldn't have heard. No, seeing Brittany would only make things harder for you because you wouldn't know how to interact with her whilst also knowing something she is unaware that you know. See? It's already becoming so complicated, so tangled like an impossible knot, and these are only your thoughts, the voices in your head.

"No," you answer, "No, I don't want you to call Brittany, that's not what I want."

"What can I do?" Quinn asks, "I just don't think that you being alone out there is the best thing right now."

You sigh sadly but only to encounter another idea seconds later, "Fine, I'll go to the roof. That way I'm still in the building."

"Whoah, um, wait," Quinn objects _again_, "It's like 60 degrees this morning."

That is a lot colder than it should be, strangely, but it doesn't change your mind. You are already wearing sweatpants and a jumper so it's not like you will freeze.

"I'll be fine," you say, shrugging as you advance towards her.

"Wait," Quinn stops you, trying to think of one more excuse.

"Quinn," you say slowly.

"We can go for a walk, let's go for—" Quinn says quickly.

"Quinn," you say once more, stressing it harder this time, "What is going on? Why can't I go to the roof, it's not like I'm going to—"

Oh. Your voice cuts off immediately. Quinn tears her eyes away to stare nervously at her twiddling fingers. She looks anxious, which is peculiar because Quinn doesn't often show her anxiety so upfront and openly. She usually tucks it away as well as she can, like you, but now you can see it written all over her face.

"Oh," you exhale, feeling it all come together, "Ooh…fuck."

"Santana…" Quinn says slowly in attempt to defend herself, "I just think…I'm worried that you might be tempted to…do something, I don't know, dangerous."

A breath catches in your throat when you hear her confession. You pause and retract, frowning at her words for you can't ignore what she revealed. It turns something in you, causes something to twist out of place and makes you feel vulnerable. Your eyes burn into hers, begging for some kind of alternative as if she could take back what she said because you don't like the sound of it. You step back, eyes still locked on Quinn's, but your heart pounds differently. It's unlike anything you have felt it do before but not in a good way; it feels like it's beating sadly, like you have just let down millions of people and now you have the burden of winning back their trust. You shake your head to stop from feeling it, to stop your mind from processing those emotions.

"Do you think…do you think I'm gonna jump?" you ask quietly, but your voice is suddenly coarse.

"Santana," Quinn says, shaking her head as she steps closer to you.

Her movement causes you to take another step backwards. She stops advancing the moment she notices how you reacted, and you realize that it must appear as though you are scared of her now, scared of what she suggested. Now that you have thought about it, the situation begins to feel that way. You begin to pick up emotions of fear and an increased susceptibility to harm. You feel threatened and it vividly reminds you of the incident. Quinn keeps her distance but still tries to handle the situation.

"That is _not_…what I said," Quinn says.

"But it's what you meant…isn't it?" you ask, feeling the need to be defensive.

"You've been through a lot and…it's really hard for you and we all worry about what you might be tempted to do," Quinn explains, keeping her tone soft in order to avoid upsetting you.

"We?" you say, catching that specifically.

"Tina and I," Quinn says, "…Brittany."

"Brittany?" you say in disbelief.

"I don't know about Brittany actually," Quinn adds, "She wasn't there when we talked about it, but I'm sure she is or has worried about that too at one point."

"No," you say, shaking your head, "Brittany knows I wouldn't. She wouldn't worry about that because I wouldn't do that, Quinn."

"Okay," Quinn says gently, "Okay, that's good."

"Why would you and Tina think that?" you ask again, still not grasping the reason behind this accusation.

"Things have been hard for you for a long time, Santana," Quinn explains, "In high school…and then this."

"Yeah but a ton of shit has happened to you and you're fine," you defend.

"But I had thoughts!" she exclaims, shaking lightly.

You pull back and your face softens, shocked by her confession. You frown when the sting behind your eyes intensifies. Quinn reaches up to rub her temples and shuts her eyes briefly to gather herself.

"What?" you breathe out.

"When shit was happening to me, I had thoughts but thankfully they stayed thoughts," she says, now looking at you sharply, "Nobody knows how your mind works. Nobody knows what kind of thoughts you have because you don't share that stuff. You don't talk about your feelings and nobody knows. Do you know how scary it is to think that you managed to keep something like _this _silent for months and months without telling anybody? I'm terrified that one day it's just going to be too much and you're gonna want out…and we live in a building with a fucking rooftop."

It's not until you blink that you realize how teary your eyes had become. Quinn doesn't look too good either. The worst part about this is that your best friends were majorly concerned about something you hadn't even considered. The fact that they have to worry about something like that sickens you, but the more you think on it the more you realize that they many reasons to. Everything Quinn said has truth to it. You don't talk about your feelings. You don't share things. When something as awful as a rape is added to that, the hurt and the pain and the torture pile up and it's a recipe for self-destruction. What Quinn and Tina have yet to understand is how much you actually want to fight. They need to understand that you want to get better. You don't think it has ever been about not wanting to live. For you, this struggle has always been about the fight but you've just been losing for too long.

Right now, however, you don't quite have words prepared to make that known. Today started off heavier than you thought it would and you don't know how you are supposed to move on from here. You can still feel the bitter taste of her words and the harsh tone of her voice. You wish she hadn't been so firm and sharp; it scares you even though you know she probably did not mean for that.

The two of you stand awkwardly in front of each other, uncertain of what to do and what not to do. By the look on Quinn's face, she realizes she may have been harder on you than she intended. You aren't overly upset but the conversation has become too overwhelming—like a lot of things have lately. What you and Quinn just discussed is the kind of moment you would normally have with Brittany. The difference is that Brittany knows how to offer you the support that you need whereas Quinn has yet to figure out how to do that. To make matters more difficult, you don't really know how to receive comfort from anyone other than Brittany right now and despite what you said earlier, you almost wish she was here.

Almost.

The silence of the apartment is interrupted by a phone. Your body and your mind crash into each other at the sound, drawing your full attention towards reality and the ringing that now fills the room. Quinn starts searching first because she can move and you feel stuck. You can hear the phone but your feet would rather remain glued to this position. You try not to fight it in response. You let your body take charge right now because you have neither the energy nor the desire to involve yourself in something you aren't sure you will know how to handle.

"Um…it's your phone," Quinn says from somewhere behind you.

Your head snaps up but you refuse to turn around.

"It's Brittany," she informs you, "Do you want it?"

You stay where you are, feeling your muscles tense and your body freeze at the mention of her name. The ringing stops and for a split second you believe that Quinn let it go to voice-mail but then you hear her voice, and that split second of relief is snatched from right from your hands.

"Hey, no, it's Quinn," she says, seeming to have picked up the call, "Uh…yeah, yes she's fine. She's right here actually."

You curse in your head when you hear that, knowing now that you have to talk to her. The problem is that you will either lie, which never works, or tell her what you know. In other words, the odds are working against you. You aren't ready for that conversation yet because you don't even know how you feel about the information you learned last night. Before you can even keep thinking, Quinn comes back to stand in front of you. She notices how reluctant you are to take the call and finds it strange, which she should considering you would normally never miss up an opportunity to talk to Brittany. Today just so happens to be a different kind of day.

"Okay, yeah, here," Quinn says before offering you the phone.

You stare at it sharply and wait long enough for Quinn to make a face and force it into your hand. You take it and sigh as it sits in your palm. On the count of three, in your head, you take a deep breath and bring it to your ear.

"Hi," you murmur.

"_Hey you."_

Even now, her voice still makes you smile a little.

"_How are you?"_

"I'm fine," you answer but the moment you say it, you know she caught you.

Quinn stands there still, staring at you weirdly. You frown back at her and turn around to retreat to the window at on the opposite side of the room.

"_Santana…"_

You hold your breath until you are far enough away from Quinn.

"What?" you say dumbly.

"Y_ou're not telling me something."_

"I'm okay, Britt," you try, "I just…didn't wake up so great this morning."

"_Really? What happened?"_

"Bad dream, I think?" you answer, "I don't know. I don't remember. I just woke up a little shaky."

"_I'm sorry. I wish I had been there." _

You breathe in deeply, taking your time to answer by chewing on your lip.

"Yeah," you murmur, "Me too."

That was not a lie because you always want to wake up next to Brittany. You just haven't told her the ultimate truth yet. You know that you will not be able to get away with it though. If she doesn't suspect anything during this phone call, she sure as hell will figure it out when you meet her in person again. You can't hide anything from her because your lips could be talking a load of smack but your eyes would translate it all into the truth.

"_Did you get the note I wrote? I stopped by in the morning but you were still asleep—"_

"Yeah," you interrupt, "Yeah, that was sweet of you. Thank you."

"_Are you sure you're okay? You sound…I feel like I need to be worried right now."_

"Don't," you insist, "Please, don't be worried. I'm okay."

"_Was it just the dream?"_

"Yeah, I think so," you answer.

Now that was a lie and it tastes horrible. You don't even remember dreaming let alone know if the dream was scary or not. The only thing you assume is that it was brutal because it managed to pull you from your sleep and not in the kindest manner.

"_Okay, well just let me know if there is anything I can do. I was just calling to check up on you. My last class today ends at like 11. Can I come see you?"_

That doesn't really give you much time to sort things out but if you say no then she will definitely know something is wrong. Plus, this whole situation has not made you feel differently about Brittany; you still want to see her and be with her. It just made things slightly more complicated than you would've liked. Hearing what you heard and now knowing what you know is like adding a tiny weight to the already growing pile of them that you carry on your back.

With a deep breath, you answer her question, "Eleven."

"_Yeah? Okay, I'll see you then."_

"Brittany…" you say, just before she hangs up, "I love you."

She pauses on the other end, her breath hitching the moment you told her. Knowing the kind of person Brittany is, saying that probably made her worry even more but for now, you hope it's enough to put you in the clear until she comes over. Also, that is definitely _not_ a lie.

"_I love you too, Santana."_

The call lingers a few more seconds before you bring the phone away from your ear and end it. You wait a moment before turning around and addressing Quinn once again, knowing she was most likely eavesdropping as best as she could from wherever she is standing. To pass time, you check through your call log and messages, finding an abundant amount of missed calls and texts from the past few days. Just looking at the red notification bubbles start to make you anxious, a bundle of nerves knotting in the pit of your stomach. You set the phone down before you can look at them. On top of everything you still have to think about, you don't want to have to deal with the pressure from your friends at work too.

"Is everything okay?" Quinn finally asks, breaking the silence.

You clear your throat and decide that you have to leave. You have to go somewhere and at this point, you don't care where or who you go with.

"Yeah," you answer, "Quinn, I need to go."

"Santana…"

"You can come with me," you offer, "To the roof. If you're really that scared I'm going to do something, then you can come with me."

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and chews on it. Quinn knows you don't really want her there but she also knows that to trust an emotionally and mentally unstable person would be foolish. According to last night, that is what they think you are—unstable—and maybe a month ago that would've made you furious, but they aren't wrong. You now know better than to think you are someone who is capable of making the best and most thought out decisions.

"So you coming or not?" you say, without waiting for Quinn's answer.

You walk past her and open the door, leaving it ajar so that she knows to follow you unless she miraculously decides to trust you and let you go alone. You hear her footsteps and the door close shortly after you leave, ripping away that possibility of you having some time to yourself. You walk up the stairs, snuggling into your sweater to store as much warmth there as possible. Quinn trails behind you but you don't look back at her until you reach the top and open the heavy door to step outside. The cold air rushes quickly to your face and into your clothes. You shiver but push through it and walk towards the edge.

"Shit, it's cold," Quinn curses.

You chuckle quietly to yourself and lean out, breathing it in because it's the first time in a while that you have been able to enjoy the fresh air. You grip the rail tightly, knowing Quinn's stare is chaining your every move down to the ground. For now, you close your eyes and try not to focus on her but on the air that trickles along your skin, the breeze that slides past your cheeks and into your hair. You wish it had the power of swishing through your head and clearing out all the negative thoughts, leaving you with only the positive; clear out all the dangerous temptations and replace them with will power and inner strength. You could use a lot of that right now, but you don't know where to get it. All of a sudden, it doesn't feel so light and free anymore, not with that thought. You can almost feel gravity hook onto you and yank you back down. You soak up as much of the view as you can before your eyes pull away and retreat to your hands, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

"That doesn't ever really go away," Quinn suddenly says, coming to stand beside you.

"I'm sorry?" you ask, turning to face her.

Her eyes point to your hands, "Your nervous twiddling; it might not ever stop."

You become conscious of your fingers and pull them apart, wiping your palms against your thighs to get rid of the sweat. You clear your throat and squint out at the view again, trying to make sure Quinn's words don't get the best of you.

"Thanks," you say sarcastically, "I needed to hear that."

"I didn't mean it that way," Quinn defends, speaking softly, "I just meant that once you're better, once the really bad stuff goes away, there might still be a few small things that stick around. Like the hand thing, anytime you're nervous."

"Is that what happened to you?" you ask.

"When I'm nervous, I twiddle my fingers," she explains, "When I go to a party, I count how many drinks I've had. When I get into a car to drive, I turn my phone on silent. I'm not scared of parties or driving, I just…have habits. And I want you to understand that you might have some too and that it doesn't mean you aren't healed, it just means you are finding ways to live with what happened."

You can already think of a few, but you don't want "habits". You don't want reminders.

"I'm not gonna have those," you say naively.

Quinn stares at you briefly before nodding, unwilling to argue with you on that because you both know that it never leads to any good.

"Can I ask you something?" Quinn says after a pregnant pause.

You avoid her eyes because you have already made yourself feel insecure and you really don't need someone else helping you with that. Still, without your response, Quinn decides to continue.

"Have you…_been_ with Brittany?" she asks carefully.

"What?" you say, facing Quinn immediately.

"The two of you…" she explains, "Have you?"

"No," you say firmly.

Quinn nods as if she expected that answer, which only makes you angry. You really don't like it when people think they know more about you than you do. That has always been a pet peeve of yours and it always will be. More than anything, you hate the feeling of not knowing yourself, not knowing who you are and not knowing how you feel. It's the worst feeling, and that is really saying something considering what you have been through. So when someone comes along and decides they suddenly know who you are and what is best for you, when that has been something you have struggled with your whole life, it frustrates you. That is what happened with Brittany at first. You were so angry and frustrated with her and with yourself because she walked into your life and figured you out before you could say hello.

"Have you been with…anyone?" Quinn asks again.

"Quinn," you say harshly, sending her a wicked glare before turning around to walk away.

She follows you immediately and grabs your hand, "Hey, okay, okay, I'm sorry. That was…out of line, I'm sorry."

You stop and sigh, allowing her the time to come around and stand in front of you. The apologetic look on her face is genuine enough to stop yourself from pushing her into a wall. The truth is that you don't know whether it was the question that upset you, or the answer.

"It's fine," you say, feeling mature enough to accept, "Plus, what happens between Brittany and I shouldn't really be a topic of your concern."

"Well, that's a little unfair, Santana," she objects, "You're both my best friends, it's not that easy to not care."

"Why did you ask me that?" you ask, "No really, why did you ask me about Brittany…or anyone else?"

Quinn steps back and drops her eyes to her fingers. From what she said earlier, you know she is nervous.

"Because you want to know if I can _be _with someone," you say bitterly, "You could've asked me anything else about our relationship. You could've asked me how I feel about her but you didn't do that. You had to ask about the specific part of a relationship that you very well know someone like me, in my situation, would have trouble with."

"Santana," Quinn says quietly.

"And what you said earlier. About those thoughts, about the roof," you say, "I know you are all worried and I know you're just trying to help, but the more you treat me like a victim, the more I'm going to feel like one."

Quinn swallows nervously, "I'm sorry."

"I don't need you to be my therapist," you tell her firmly, "I need _you_. I need Quinn. I need my best friend."

"I am your best friend," she says.

"So just be here for me," you confess, shrugging to stress how simple it's, "Can you do that?"

"Yes, of course," Quinn says, stepping closer, "I just…Santana, I don't know what to say sometimes because I don't know if you want to talk about it or talk about something else..."

"Something else," you answer, "Always something else. I'm so tired of answering the same question over and over again. I'm so tired of having to decide what kind of excuse I'll use this time. It's so…exhausting to think about me that sometimes…I just want someone to tell me something else."

"Okay," she says, "Okay, see now I know that. I can be better at this."

You release a long overdue breath and nod, feeling a little lighter now that you got that out. You didn't really know that you had something to tell her, to confess to her. It only occurred to you in the heat of the moment, when the words were leaving your lips and reaching her ears. Everything you said is true and you _have_ known it to some extent. You know you are exhausted of people constantly talking about you but you hadn't particularly understood what you wanted them to do instead. You just remember Brittany being confronted with the same situation days ago and handling it perfectly. After seeing how reluctant you were to talk about how you feel, she talked about her goldfish. You didn't really care about the fish but just the fact that she was the first person to recognize what you really needed at that time. If Quinn could do that, if she could spare the worry and concern for one or two conversations each day and tell you about herself or something she experienced, it would change so much. It would be cathartic for you.

Now that you no longer feel the need to be away from Quinn, you turn around and return to the edge. She sighs in relief, but you don't quite know the reason. Perhaps for not upsetting you too much or perhaps for finally being on the same page as each other. Whatever it is, you appreciate the fact that Quinn is trying. At this point, you appreciate anyone that tries to help you because you know you are difficult, you know you can be a burden and you know that you are not exactly a ray of sunshine. Just because you hate the question, doesn't mean you hate the person asking it. Frankly, anyone who notices that there might be something wrong and cares enough to ask is someone decent and it's not like you can be mad at a person for caring.

"Can I ask you another question?" Quinn says, approaching you again.

You drop your head and sigh heavily, as if she didn't understand anything about what you just said.

"There's a job opening for a PR position at this magazine company and I've been looking into it," she starts, "It'd be a paid internship but I sort of want to apply."

You pause, feeling a slow and calm breath enter your body. On the release, your mouth curves into a tiny smile.

"Go for it," you tell her, "You can do anything you want, Q. No matter what it is, you'll be good at it."

She scoffs, "You still believe that, huh?"

"I believe things that are true," you say, smirking.

"Okay," she says confidently, "I'm going to do it."

"Good," you say with a genuine smile.

You eventually turn back to the view and lean on the rail. With the silence that now falls over the two of you, you can listen to the air brushing past your ears and the distant traffic sounds from below. You like it this way sometimes; seeing things from a far, from above. You like the way it makes the world seem just as small as it is big. You can hold the streets and the buildings between a thumb and an index finger but you can see how the sky never ends. It's definitely scary when you put it that way but you realize that there is always another side to something, even if it feels like there isn't. Sometimes it takes a little longer and little more effort to find that alternative perspective but it's there. It took you months to realize you don't always have to be the victim anymore and here you are now, ready to fight something you once thought was unbeatable.

"Okay," Quinn says with a sigh, coming to stand beside you again, "So how _do _you feel about Brittany?"

You shake your head, "You really don't have to ask that just because I said—"

"But I want to know," Quinn interrupts, "I've always wondered how it works."

"What?" you ask, confused.

"You and Brittany," she clarifies, "How does it…work with you guys? It's so…different from other relationships I've known. After all this time, I mean, you're still…you're still together."

You ask yourself that question a lot too; how does it work? What makes you and Brittany so different from anything else you have felt before? Why is it this one girl? You never really know the answer to it, you still don't and you may never find out, but you keep picking up pieces of it over the years. The more time you spend with her, the more you begin to understand how it all fits together.

"I don't know," you start, "Brittany is just…she's it."

"See, how do you know that?" Quinn asks, "How can you be so sure already?"

You shrug, "I fell in love with her when I was still learning how to be someone. I'm still learning now but I think that when you find someone like that when you're so young, when you aren't whole yet or something, you just…it just sticks. It grows with you. I don't know how to _not _love her."

"And…time," Quinn says, choosing her words carefully, "Hasn't changed that?"

"Time doesn't change anything," you say slowly, "Time passes, that's all it does. People change. I changed…but the fact that I still love Brittany after all this time is enough for me to know that it'd take the end of the world to get me to stop. Maybe not even then."

Quinn takes a deep breath and blows it out dramatically, as if what you said was more than she was asking for. Even you are just realizing the extent of what you said, how you feel about her. That's the thing you came up here to do and you did it, well you started it at least. You could be wrong, but for now you're just going to stick with that explanation. If there is one thing you have always been sure about, though not something you have always accepted, it's how you feel about this one girl. When you were just kids, you knew you liked her. When you were teenagers, you knew you loved her. Now, you know that you want to be with her.

That reminds you.

"Quinn," you start to say, feeling the words at the tip of your tongue, "I know about Brittany."

"What?" Quinn says, eyes narrowing.

"That she wants…or wanted to…" you continue, nervously picking your nails, "…marry me."

Quinn's eyes widen immediately and you can easily tell that she isn't shocked about the "marry" part but about the fact that you know. You can even see a quick shot of panic rush through her brain as if she is trying to remember whether she said or did something to let you find out. While you have no idea how long Quinn has known about this or even how she came to know it, you know she and Brittany have talked about it.

"What? When? I mean…no that's—"

"I heard you last night," you explain, "…with Brittany. I woke up…at one point and the door was open and I heard."

"Santana," Quinn starts nervously, "I…you should talk to Brittany about that, it's not my place."

"But it's true?" you ask, "She…said that?"

Quinn sighs, realizing things are now more complicated with you knowing, "She may have…mentioned something."

"Okay," you say, blowing out a breath.

"But she's not going to…do anything about it," Quinn says worriedly, as if she thought you were going to panic, "She knows…We all know that you can't handle that kind of thing right now."

"No," you say, "I can't."

"And she knows that, so you don't have to…freak out," Quinn says.

"I'm going to marry Brittany," you say spontaneously.

"What?" Quinn says, freezing.

"I'm going to marry her," you repeat, "Of course not now, I-I can't do that now. I can barely…touch her without something going wrong, without thinking too much. I can't marry her now but I will one day and you're going to help me do it."

"I'm sorry, what?" she says, bringing hands up in defense, to slow down the pace of this conversation.

"You're not going to tell her that I know," you say, "Just like I won't tell her that I know either."

"Santana," Quinn warns.

"Just hear me out okay?" you interrupt, pleading for her to listen, "I'm a mess right now. I know some things about me but a lot of who I am has been broken and torn apart because of what happened and I need to fix that. One moment I'm okay and the next I'm falling apart. I'm all over the place. I feel like almost anything has the potential to hurt me right now, but I want to get better and the moment I do, the moment I get through this…I want to live. I don't want to wait until the next thing comes around to knock me back down. That's also why you don't have to worry about me doing something dangerous. I want to live, Quinn. But I'm not going to live like this anymore."

Quinn doesn't say anything. She just smiles and pulls you into a hug, something she rarely ever does. You feel her arms wrap around you tightly and for the first few seconds, you aren't quite sure where to put yours. Eventually, you accept her comfort and it feels different than what Brittany offers, but not in a bad way. If anything, you need more comfort than just Brittany's all the time. While hers goes a long way, it's nice to feel like there is more than one pair of arms ready to catch you.

"You're a lot stronger than you make yourself out to be, y'know?" Quinn says as she pulls away to meet your eyes.

You look at her strangely and huff, "You still believe that?"

"I believe things that are true," Quinn says, a sly grin growing quietly across her lips.

* * *

You check again but nothing is there, no insect or creepy crawler tip toeing its way down your arm. It started ten minutes ago when you came out into the living to read. Brittany is supposed to be here soon, like she said, so you decided to wait for her. After talking to Quinn, you felt a little better about your situation so you were looking forward to seeing Brittany. You still are and that's why you are out here, reading an old book from your room but something keeps interrupting you. A weird feeling, an irritable itch in your skin, yet every time you check, nothing is there. You have felt this before, this crawling sensation, but it's much worse now than you remember it being. It's so uncomfortable and Quinn, who is sitting on the sofa across from you, has noticed you fidget a couple of times and asked what the problem was. You have a feeling it might have something to do with the drugs, or _not having _the drugs, but you aren't going to tell her that. You don't want her to know that for the past hour or so you have been thinking about cocaine. You keep pushing it away, hoping it's just a minor setback, but everyone knows that avoidance does nothing to stop a craving. The fact that you even have cravings is bad enough.

Someone knocks at the door and you snap out of your thoughts, sitting upright immediately. Quinn gives you a peculiar stare, most likely from the reaction you just had, and sets her book down. She begins to stand up but you would rather go open the door yourself, assuming it is Brittany.

"I got it," you say, sticking a hand out as you stand up too.

Quinn's eyes narrow briefly before she shrugs and sits back down on the sofa, allowing you to answer the door. When you do, you meet Brittany and she looks so pretty that you almost forget to take a breath. The blue in her eyes looks exceedingly sharp and pure, almost the depth of cobalt. You shift your weight onto one side and lean against the door, needing something to keep you from losing balance all of a sudden.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," you reply, releasing an infatuated sigh.

She quirks an eyebrow and smirks as she steps in, "What's with you?"

Your eyes widen and you quickly stand up straight again, "What? Nothing."

Brittany giggles and leans in to place a kiss on your cheek before cradling your face in her soft hands. You can't feel any type of itch or crawling sensation anymore and soon enough, the thought of it disappears completely. When looking into those eyes, today like cerulean caves, it's hard to think about anything else. You spent years trying to learn how to look away but at one point you realized that you were trying to stop the inevitable from happening, trying to stop what is meant to happen. And at another point, much later than it should have been, you realized you were the one who needed to stop fighting that.

"So is everything okay from this morning?" she asks.

"Yeah," you say, "I'm okay."

She searches your eyes first, as she always does before believing your words, and sees that you are being truthful. Besides the uncomfortable itching you were feeling minutes ago, you feel stable. While that could change any moment, you're willing to take your chances. You'll admit that Quinn helped you today, even though it wasn't planned. She helped you say something you didn't really know you wanted to say and it made you wonder; maybe what you need is to keep talking. Maybe she gave you the push you needed. Right now, though, you want to focus on the girl in front of you because you haven't seen her since yesterday and that's enough to miss her already. The truth is that hearing what you heard last night helped you gain confidence about your relationship with her. Yes, the idea of marrying Brittany still sounds scary but before you panicked, you stopped to remember that you don't have to do anything. On that very same path of thought, knowing you don't _have _to, you discovered that it's actually something you do want. Clever how minds do that; use what you don't want to find what you do want. For now, however, you're going to set it aside and take it step by step. You have a lot to work on before you can make a commitment as large and dedicated as marriage.

You reach up and grip Brittany's hands, pulling them down and to your waist. She was confused at first but when you moved your arms to wrap around her neck, she understood. You feel her hands join together behind you and press against the small of your back, tightening the embrace and closing the distance between you.

"Hi?" Brittany says, smiling with a slightly puzzled frown.

You don't care much for responding with words so you kiss her instead. You stand on your toes and press your lips against hers, hearing the deep breath she takes in through her nose. Her fingers close gently and tug at the material of your sweater and it makes you smile. Feeling the curve of your lips against hers, Brittany smiles too. Your fingers slide into her hair and entangle themselves in the soft waves. A kiss has not felt this soothing, this free, this satisfying in a long time and you don't want it to end, but when Quinn clears her throat that's exactly what happens.

You freeze against her lips for a split second and then sigh as you pull away, flattening your feet to the ground. You watch as her eyes flutter open and a hum squeezes out from her throat. She tries to catch her breath, chest heaving slowly but deeply. Before you turn around, you let your hand slide down from her hair and press against her chest. You spend a moment feeling the erratic yet confident beats, feeling the rhythm leave her skin and travel into yours.

"Let's go," you say, taking your hand off of her chest to find her hand instead.

She follows you for a moment as you take her to your room, but once she gets her head straight again she stops you.

"Wait," she says, "Babe, could you sit down for a second?"

You frown and release her hand, eyes warily moving to find Quinn's. She sets her book down, almost as if she knows what Brittany is referring to. When she brings her feet up to the couch and shares a look with Brittany, you realize that she does know something; they know something and you don't. That doesn't bode well for you.

"Uhm," you say confusedly.

"No, it's not…don't worry, it's not something bad," Quinn says, "We just want to talk to you about something."

You turn to Brittany for some kind of reassurance, comfort even, and she gives it to you immediately. She catches up to you and regains your hand. Brittany nods and tilts her head towards the chair before nudging you gently in that direction.

"Right," you say flatly, sitting down.

Brittany leaves your side and moves to sit on the same couch as Quinn, still within reaching distance.

"What's going on, guys?" you ask nervously.

They share a nod before Brittany decides to start the conversation. Meanwhile, your heart switches from a slow walk to a sprint.

"We found a therapist," Brittany starts, and you hold your breath; "We thought we could have the first session tomorrow."

"Oh," you say, releasing the tense bubble of air in your chest once the sentence is over.

"She's really good," Quinn says, "I know some…people who have worked with her."

You raise your eyebrows, "So she's a woman?"

They share another look before Quinn answers, "Well…yeah, we figured you might be more…comfortable with—"

"No, yeah, that's fine," you interrupt, feeling your heart speed for some reason, "That's good."

"Santana," Brittany says slowly, "If you really don't want to do this yet, then we can—"

"What?" you say, lifting your head up to meet her eyes, "No, I'm…fine. I'm…ready…for that."

Your eyes trail off in some other direction, into space, and your breathing escalates a little more than you want it to. You don't really know why things are speeding up inside you but you try hard to keep it stable, just like it was moments ago.

"Are you sure?" Brittany asks again.

You heard it clearly but you don't answer it and then that feeling comes back. The bugs or insects or whatever they are and your eyes snap to look at your arm with the rolled up sleeve. Again, clean and smooth as anything.

"Hey…" Brittany says and when you look up, you realize she came to sit on the arm of the chair, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," you say, blowing out a breath, "Nothing. I'm…it's fine. I'm fine, that sounds good."

"You're booked for 10am and we all cleared our schedules to go with you," Quinn informs you.

You offer her a weak smile but Brittany knows how fake it is the moment she sees it. Quinn, on the other hand, either doesn't know you _that _way to be able to distinguish real from fake or she knows but finds it easier to let it go. She smiles back at you and then to Brittany who, despite her disbelief, reciprocates the gesture. You feel your hands start to tremble lightly so you hold them together, pressing them tightly to restrict movement. Suddenly, you don't want to be out here anymore.

"Was that it?" you say, standing up.

"Um…not exactly," Quinn says, slowing down carefully.

You frown and sit back down nervously, feeling the uncertainty swallow the last of your comfort.

"Santana, I need to ask you about…the drugs," she finally reveals, "How is that going for you?"

"What do you mean?" you say with a little more aggression than you intended.

Brittany places a hand on yours, "We just want to know how you're holding up."

"Yeah, how you're dealing with it," Quinn adds, "Have you had any…moments?"

"I'm fine, guys," you say, hoping to convince them.

"Because…we still have to talk about the option of reh—"

"No," you object immediately before realizing you need to be more calm to pull this off, "I mean…no, I don't need to go there. I gave my drugs to you, that was the last of it. I don't have anymore."

"That's not really solving the problem though, Santana," Quinn reminds you, "You could still have cravings and moments of weakness."

"I'm not gonna lie and say I don't think about it sometimes," you try to admit, but pick your words carefully, "But that stuff really screwed me up. It really messed me up and I don't want it in my life. I'm not going to use."

You hold your stare for Quinn to see and believe. From the corner of your eye, you notice Brittany and the way she bows her head. She can spot every lie you just told and she can hear the detector spin off the page. She knows you have a problem and she knows you are lying because you can't bear the thought of rehab. For now, however, you just need to get Quinn on your side. Quinn seems to be the one who makes the calls and plans the schedules therefore she is the one to stop from signing you up. You'll worry about Brittany afterwards, you'll figure something out, but you just need Quinn to believe you and thankfully, she does.

"Okay," she says, sighing, "Okay, we'll see how the therapy goes then."

"Okay," you say, nodding casually, "Thank you."

You forget to take Brittany's hand before you turn around and walk back into the room. You don't close the door once you're inside so that gives her enough to know that you expect her to follow. You find immediate relief in sitting on the bed and waiting until she is here with you. As she approaches and enters, closing the door behind her, she stops just before you and kneels down.

"You're scared," she says gently, noting the way you avoid her direct stare and the wringing of your hands.

Knowing that if you speak then you won't be able to lie your way out of it, you simply nod instead. The thought of therapy does scare you; it has since they first mentioned it at the hospital. Just because you agreed to do it and because you know you need it doesn't mean you were looking forward to it. Every time you think of it, you think about the facts; a confined room and a stranger. Nothing about that comforts you or makes you feel safe in general but to add on the fact that those two things happen to match the conditions of the incident make it that much worse. Even imagining the space you'll be in tomorrow makes your chest feel disturbingly tight. Rehab, on the other hand, is something you don't even want to spend a second imagining. Everything about it terrifies you.

"Hey, listen to me," she coaxes, "We're all going to be there when you walk in and when you walk out. You have nothing to worry about, okay?"

You nod again, reaching up to wipe away a lonely tear that escaped from your eyes.

"Tell me something," Brittany says, holding your thighs, "Did you lie to Quinn?"

You swallow nervously and tear your eyes away.

"Santana," she breathes out in disappointment.

"Britt, you can't send me there," you beg, "It'd kill me."

"Okay, come here," Brittany says, taking your hands and lifting you up to stand with her, "We'll talk about it later."

She pulls you into a hug and envelopes your body, bringing your fronts as close as possible. You bury your face into the crease of her neck and hold tightly. Tomorrow used to sound positive but it doesn't anymore. All you wish is for it to not be as frightening as you imagine in your head. No darkly lit rooms, no haunting voice, no imbalance of power. Even the thoughts turn too intense; you want to think about something else.

"I'm here to protect you, Santana," she tells you, "You know that."

You let her hold you for a while because that always helps. If there is anything you can depend on, it's Brittany's warmth and comfort. After some time, you decide you want to move on from this. You don't want to think about it anymore so you ask her a question but the sound muffles into your shirt and she has no idea what you said.

"What?" she says, breaking away to catch it again.

"How is your day so far?" you repeat quietly, still hesitant about looking her in the eye.

Brittany's hand comes up to your chin and pushes it up gently, all the way until you have to meet the deep blue. It's remarkable how many different shades you can actually find up close; when you can see the electricity in her eyes and count the layers and rims as you dive in. She leans in and catches your bottom lip in between hers to continue the kiss you started outside. Before you can process, her tongue runs over the skin on your lip to which you impulsively react by deepening the kiss. Her tongue slips into your mouth and traces yours, sparking both excitement and nervousness in the rhythm of your heartbeat.

The kiss lasts for another minute or so and you let it. For the first time, you felt the urge to explore Brittany for more than just a quick couple seconds. You wanted it to last and you made that happen. The only reason you stopped is because she decided to pull away. Her lips close once more on yours before she breaks off and opens her eyes to you. A warm smile spreads across her lips but you are too lost in clouded judgment to come back so soon. She reaches up and strokes the side of your face, stopping by your lips to run the tip of a finger across the wet skin.

"It's beautiful," she finally answers, and you cherish that for now because you don't know how long it will last.

* * *

_You've seen this room before but you can't remember where. Or when. There are things about it; like that lamp in the corner and that…that sofa chair. That music too, you've definitely heard it before but where? You search around a little longer, trying to find more hints, more information about how you got here, how you know this place already. You turn around and find a window, though it wasn't there a second ago. You quickly run to it and peek out, but there's nothing there. A black world lit by nothing but even blacker shadows. You close the curtains immediately, feeling your heart begin to pound like a heavy wooden drum against the inside of your chest._

"_Looking for something?" someone says._

_Your head snaps around when you hear the voice but you're confronted with the corner of the room and no one in sight. You're breathing heavily now, panting, as you slowly step towards the direction from which the sound emerged. Your heartbeat has now spread to the bottom of your throat and your ears, thumping loud enough to interrupt your thoughts __aggressively__, maybe even drown them. You shut your eyes and open them again, still nothing but you and the dead silence of the room. The music stopped and there are no crickets. It's the type of quiet you could lose your mind in, you know? The type where, oh what is it they say, you can hear a pin drop?_

"_Try the door," the voice says again, this time from another angle. _

_The room is still as empty as it was seconds ago, but now there's a door. You rush to it and reach for the knob, twisting it several times to find that it's locked. You pull on it, harder each time, until it finally pops open and you run out but it's the same room. The same window and lamp and sofa chair. You look around confusedly, squinting to find some kind of explanation, but then the door shuts and your body jerks. You spin around and rush back to the door and try to open it again but this time it's jammed for good. You bang on it, fists fighting the wood as if there was a chance of winning when that has clearly been ripped from all possibilities. After minutes, you slow down and your thrashes are feeble. You rest your forehead against the door and breathe heavily, trying to tame the fear inside you. It works eventually and everything falls quiet once again, like it had in the last room. You listen to nothing, but you listen intently, and just as you start to get used to it, a breath lingers right at your ear. _

"_Boo."_

_You swing around and the faceless man swallows you violently_ but then you wake up.

Your body springs up from the bed with a loud gasp, panting as your eyes adjust to the darkness of your room. You're sweating; little drops of terror sticking to your chest, your back, your arms and legs and face.

"Santana?" you hear someone say and you quickly turn to the side of your bed.

You squint hard enough to recognize Brittany. She sits up once she sees you and the state you're in. She reaches over and turns on the lamp on the bedside table. You're still breathing like there is absolutely no air inside you and you need to find some immediately. Your heart throbs like a gushing wound, thick and saturated with blood too terrified to carry out its own function. You press a hand against the side of your head to apply pressure; the throbbing sensation seems to have spread to the veins in your brain.

"Whoah, whoah, hey what happened?" she asks worriedly, reaching to hold your face.

You can't speak, or you don't have a voice. Either way, nothing is coming out of your mouth except desperate breathes. You keep looking around because you were in a room, somewhere. You try to find the lamp and the sofa chair and the window but none of that is here. And the man, the man; his face was gone, nothing but a devilish grin still inked to the freshest part of your memory. You shut your eyes and try to rid it from your thoughts but everything is still there; all of it.

"Shit," you breathe out.

"Santana, look at me," Brittany tries again, gripping your neck this time, "It's me, hey, it's me, come on."

You start to shake, shivers poisoning every part of your body. Your hands tremble, your lips tremble, all that you can feel right now trembles. You don't want to feel this.

"Was it a bad dream?" she asks, voice cracking with concern, "Santana, talk to me."

Your eyes begin to water, tears flooding your vision enough to blur it all. You hear whimpers, but you can't tell if that's you or an injured animal somewhere nearby. It sounds a lot like the latter, but then again why would an animal be in your room? It feels hot in here despite the shaking of your body. You sweat yet your teeth chatter. You somehow rush off the bed and back up against the wall, still breathing erratically. You bend over, hands on your knees.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, feeling nausea attack the only stable part of your head.

Brittany climbs off after you but you move towards the one thing you need right now, the first thing you can think of. You rush to your desk and open the drawer but you are confronted with disappointment.

"What?" you say, searching through it desperately, "What…where is it?"

You glance around the room in confusion before it hits you. They flushed the drugs. You don't have them anymore.

"No," you mutter, running hands through your hair, "Fuck."

"Santana," Brittany says again, trying to bring you back.

"No, no, I need it," you mutter.

You push around the room with an aggressive need. You check your bedside table, throwing out everything in the draw but finding nothing that you want. You move to the bookshelf beside it and pull out books, opening them because you remember stashing a baggie there one time. Seconds later you feel warmth spread from the center of your face and you drop everything in your hand. You reach up to touch the warmth but find something thick and liquid, pulling away a bloody palm.

"Shit," you panic, "Oh fuck."

You glance up at Brittany and watch as her eyes widen at the blood. You finally sink to the ground and sit, crimson covered hands quivering in front of you.

"Oh god, okay, hey, look up, Santana," Brittany says, rushing to your side.

You do what she says and look up, feeling the blood flow heavily from your nose. This hasn't happened in a while, why is it starting again? Brittany looks around the room and spots a towel hanging from the chair. She tells you to keep your head back while she quickly runs to grab it. She sticks her hand under the cloth and reaches up to your face, wiping it gently before holding it steady.

"Wipe your hands," she says, but there's coldness to her tone that scares you.

You follow orders, feeling weaker than you ever have during one of these nosebleeds. Despite what is happening, you still want the drugs. You can't deny it. You remember how being high helped you escape and that's what you want right now. You want the drugs, you want the escape. Tears spill from your eyes because you feel vulnerable and terrified and desperate. It's as if you were given this period of light, this period of hope, only to have it ripped from your hands. As if you were climbing and climbing to the top, to a new level, only to have a pair of feet stomp on your fingers and shove you back down. But what hurts even more than that is the look on Brittany's face. If you were to combine all the times you have felt your heart break, it wouldn't amount to the burn you feel as it shatters right now. She looks so far past worried and scared and devastated that you can't think of words horrible enough to describe it correctly.

"I can't keep defending you," Brittany says, trying desperately not to break into tears.

You frown hurtfully, feeling the lump shoot up your throat and escape in a shaky breath. A tear drops from Brittany's eyelash and onto her cheek, but you wish more than anything that you hadn't seen it fall.

"You have to go, Santana," she says coarsely until her voice cracks into a whisper.

If your world wasn't already broken, it is now.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know. But if I recall correctly, I never promised that there wouldn't be any more downs. I'm sorry, really. Life just doesn't happen that way. Things get torn away from you before you even had the chance to enjoy it. Anyways, I have a period of exams coming up and these are really important so I can't say when the next update will be. All I will say is that the next "group" of chapters, if you will, are going to be quite different in structure and style. I know you all area also waiting for the therapy sessions but worry not because they are coming up next. Keep your heads up! Keep your guard up too, though. xx**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: What You Have to Do **

**#1: "Don't be nervous."**

A clock, somewhere in the room, keeps ticking like it has all the time in the world, nowhere else to be. You sit still, so you have for the past fifteen minutes, hands locked together tightly in your lap. There are a couple others here too, more than you expected as you count them off in your head. There's a man in the far corner; he's flipping through a magazine. There's a woman in a chair to your left; she's busy with her phone.

This floor has three rooms, thus, logically speaking, three different therapists. They must be waiting for their appointments just like you are. It makes you wonder what their story is. Or maybe that's just what your mind is doing to help with the nerves; think about other people's problems, not yours.

The weight on your eyelids makes it hard to concentrate. You feel exhausted. You didn't get much sleep, not after last night.

The cab ride here was silent, the deafening kind. Come to think of it, the whole morning was of that nature too. It's not the same anymore. There's a label on you now, slapped to your forehead, to your back, to every exposed part of your being and everyone's reading it. You used to be terrified of labels, so much that it ironically gave you one; the girl who was too scared to be herself. You were convinced that the fear disappeared at one time, that you overcame it when you stopped fighting so much, when you started being honest with yourself, when you made someone your first girlfriend, when you started listening to your heart to follow your dreams.

Maybe you were wrong to think that. Maybe you were too quick to believe. Maybe fears can always return even after you conquer them because this fear that runs through you right now sure as hell looks familiar. Maybe fears don't disappear. Maybe they live inside you and when you think you've beaten them, they really just moved to a darker, less obvious hiding place.

Sometimes thinking about how many things you're afraid of is what brings you the most fear. What's worse is that you can't put a definition on any of them. It's one thing to have fears and to know them; scared of the dark, scared of growing up, scared of failure. But how do we stop fear from attacking us, hurting us, when we fail to understand where it comes from and what part of us it targets? Fearing fear. It's a double threat and it wants you.

Warmth spreads onto the back of your hand as it rests on the arm of the chair. You're not in your head anymore but seeing Brittany's hand on top of yours almost makes you want to climb back. Her palm is soft, the strokes she makes are smooth, but they don't comfort you. Brittany doesn't comfort you. That might be the one of the scariest feelings. When you look at her, when you _think _about her, your stomach tightens and tangles and twists. It started last night and worsened this morning. Something in the gears of your relationship has been tinkered with, and it doesn't feel so good anymore.

You slide your hand out from under hers and put more distance between the two of you by leaning towards the other side of the chair. There's no way you can face her after that. The only thing you can do is pretend that it wasn't on purpose, like your were uncomfortable in your seat so you wanted to move. There's no point, though, because Brittany will see right through it. You wish you didn't have to feel this resentment towards her but you do. After all, she broke her promise when she decided to help Quinn admit you into rehab this morning.

"Santana Lopez?"

It's what you've been waiting for. The thick blood pumping through your veins is both a burden and a motivation. You stand up without a word and walk towards the receptionist who called you.

"Hey," Brittany reaches out for your arm and waits for you to turn around.

When you do, you stare as if all you want is for her to say what she has to say and be done with it. She opens her mouth as if to say something like "I love you" but her face changes, her eyes change, and that's not what comes out.

"I'll be here," she says flatly.

You can't even give her a weak smile. The corners of your mouth pinched up but it was unnoticeable for anyone who wasn't looking carefully. The air between the two of you grows so uncomfortable that you forget to reply and before you get the chance, Quinn and Tina chime in with their own words of encouragement.

"We love you," Tina reminds you.

"Good luck, okay?" Quinn adds with a kind smile, "We'll be waiting."

You send them all the same pressed smile, skipping Brittany, and take a deep breath. You try not to think so hard when you turn around and start towards the lady who awaits you. You really don't want to have to walk in with a burden already on your shoulders. You aren't supposed to have problems with Brittany. She's _supposed_ to be the easy thing, the part of your life that gets you through the day.

"Good morning," the receptionist says when you reach her, "Dr. Bryant is ready for you."

You eye her briefly as she signals for you to enter. You follow her lead and once you're in, she closes the door behind as if there isn't a way out now. When you find the therapist sitting at her desk, finishing off a sentence with her pen, you take a deep breath and try to set aside your conflict with Brittany. After all, this is about you now.

"Hi, Santana," she finally stands up and greets, "Do you mind if I call you that?"

She's younger than what you expected, possibly in her late thirties. Her hair is dark brown and tied up in a very neat bun that looks like it took hours to fashion. You shake your head and watch as she maneuvers around the furniture to meet you. By not speaking, ironically, you might've told her fifty things about what kind of person you might be.

"I'm Dr. Bryant," she introduces, extending her hand to which you shake, "We'll be working together."

You offer yet another silent response, this time a thin smile to acknowledge her comment. Dr. Bryant releases your hand and guides you towards the seating area. It sort of looks like how you pictured it, although not as scary and dark, which puts you at ease.

She takes her seat, lifting a hand towards the couch opposite from her chair to imply that you should also take your place.

"Not the talkative type?" she assumes, but her smile is kind.

Again, by _not_ speaking, you managed to give an answer.

"Is this your first time with therapy?" she wonders.

Your replies remain wordless, a simple nod.

"Well, don't be nervous," she reassures, "This experience is yours more than it is mine."

That statement intrigues you; makes you wonder whether or not you'll be as powerless in here as you thought.

"So," she begins, "Would you like to tell me why you're here today?"

The question doesn't make sense because you know she already has the details. You had to write down a few sentences and tick a whole bunch of boxes about your condition on the application form, the very same one that is pinned to her clipboard, perched in her lap, resting before her eyes.

"I wrote it down there," you remind her politely.

"Oh, yes, well I know what it says here," she acknowledges, "But I'd like you to tell me."

You know this won't work unless you cooperate, unless you talk. The truth is that you want to be here as much as you don't; sort of like you know this is where you're going to get the help you need but you know it's going to be hard as anything to sit in this room and communicate.

"Okay," you start off slow, hoping to pick up confidence on the way, "Um…well…I've…"

She waits patiently, even as you struggle. The words don't fit together, or maybe they do but you just don't know how to make them.

"I have…I've been having some…trouble…," you continue, trying hard to phrase the thoughts, "I'm sorry, I'm not really good at this."

"That's perfectly fine, Santana," her face softens, comforting you when you look up from your hands, "You're doing fine."

"Okay," you say with a steady breath, "Um…something…happened a while back and it's…I haven't been able to really…deal with it."

"How long ago exactly?" she asks.

"M-March," you tell her, a light quiver in your voice as Dr. Bryant writes it down.

"That's quite a long time since now, if I may say," she shifts in her chair and studies you, "You said this was your first time in therapy. Am I correct to assume you haven't sought any other form of help or guidance until now as well?"

"Yeah," you answer.

"And just so we are both on the same page," she leads, and your insides wrench, "Could you tell me what happened to you?"

The bitter taste on your tongue intensifies greatly, mixing a flavor horrid enough to make you want to throw it up.

"I was…uh…" you stammer. It's still so incredibly difficult even after all this time, "Do…I have to?"

"Are you not comfortable with talking about the matter?" she wonders, her eyes diligently searching every part of your composure, expression, being.

"I haven't exactly…ever talked about it," you finally confess.

"You haven't told anyone about it?" she says, seemingly surprised.

"No, I have," you say quickly, "I have but…when I did, I didn't actually_ say _the, uh…I didn't actually say it."

"Santana," she begins, the use of your name adding weight to the conversation, "Have you dealt with this at all since it happened? Have you thought about it, have you tried to work through it or did you push it out as soon and as far as you could?"

A familiar lump revisits your throat, stealing the air so your breathing turns erratic, "I did what…I knew how to do."

"And what was that?" she inquires, lifting her chin up, eyes squinting as she waits for your answer.

"I…" your tongue swells as if the answer carries its own venom.

It's only the first session and you've already said more than you thought you'd be able to. You were waiting for that line to be crossed, for the question, or the answer, that would trigger a warning, a loud, shrieking alarm. You think you may have reached it and perhaps even crossed it.

"Can we talk about something else?" you ask nervously.

"Is there something wrong?" she wonders.

"No I just don't…" you sigh, taking in a breath, "Look, I wouldn't be sitting here if this was easy to talk about."

Dr. Bryant smiles kindly, "I guess you're right."

"I'm sorry," you say quietly, "I'm not so…good with people."

"That's fine," she responds, "I don't expect you to always tell me something when I ask you to."

You can't say much about her yet but she seems understanding. Maybe it's a therapist thing. After all, she has to sit and listen to other people's problems for hours on end. It wouldn't work if she or any therapist, for the matter, didn't have patience or the ability to maneuver around the barriers that may exist between them and their patients.

"Have you worked with…people like me?" you ask with a curious approach.

"People like you?" she repeats with a frown.

"With the same…problem," you explain quietly.

"Ah," she says, nodding once it makes sense, "Well yes, I have. But that doesn't matter to us."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"Everyone is different," she explains, "People can share the same source of pain, but nobodyfeels pain the same way."

You try to view it through her perspective. We all have our own mechanisms of dealing with problems. We all have our own ways to perceive and feel the consequences of those problems. You're curious to know if there are people like you, people who have handled their issues the way you have; running, avoiding, hiding to altogether exacerbate the wound that was left to fester.

"Do people get better?" you wonder.

"Sorry?" she says with a light frown.

"Does all this…" you clarify, gesturing around the room, "…does it work?"

Dr. Bryant shifts in her chair, tucking a leg behind the other, "We'll have to find out."

You scoff lightly, "Right."

"For what it's worth, Santana," she follows up, "My job is to help people, to help them overcome, to help them grow. If I were failing, _I_ wouldn't be sitting here."

You study the confidence that thickens the tone of her voice. You want to be like that one day. You want to be that confident, that strong. You want to remember what it feels like to know who you are and what you want to do. There was a time when you had that; your first year of college and onwards especially, all up until that night You had solid ground beneath your feet and a path to walk down and even if you weren't quite sure where you were headed, you knew that you were on your way towards something, a future.

Listening to Dr. Bryant's words makes you want to rediscover the strength that was violently robbed from you. She said it securely like there was no chance of it being wrong and that's something you admire just as much as you crave for yourself. People around you have that kind of control too and you're tired of being reminded everyday that you _don't, _that you lost it somewhere.

"So…" she begins, "Is there something you _would _like to talk about then?"

"Uhh…" you stammer, trying to think of something, "Um no, I thought it would sort of…go by your rules."

"My rules?" she says, chuckling, "Santana, I don't have rules. We talk about whatever you want to talk about."

"No I know but like…don't you ask me so and then I answer and then we have some kind of moment," you say innocently, "Isn't that how it works?"

She laughs again quietly, "It's not quite that simple and we surely won't figure this out in one session."

"Great," you say under your breath.

"Time, patience and commitment," she states, "You're going to need that, trust me."

"Even better," you mutter.

She smiles lightly, "I hope no one told you this was going to be easy."

You sigh and lean back on the cushion. Your hands find each other in your lap, opposite fingers meeting and lacing desperately. Even if someone had said something, you wouldn't have believed them. The terms _easy _and _therapy _may sound alike but they don't belong in the same sentence, not unless one is negated.

"Do you open up often?" she asks randomly.

You look up, "What?"

"Do you share with other people?" she clarifies, "Feelings, thoughts."

Your eyes drift away from hers and the first thing that comes into your mind is Brittany. You rarely share but when you do, it's mostly when she's around.

You wish you handled the situation differently back there but you're so easily blinded by your own emotions. You're embarrassed, ashamed that she had to see you at one of your lowest moments and instinctively, that makes you want to shut her out. You're angry too, and maybe you shouldn't be, but right and wrong don't influence how you feel. The decision she made was one that hurt you and the worst part is that she knew it would.

"Should I take that as a no?" Dr. Bryant says, drawing you back to the conversation.

You meet her expecting eyes and press your lips together, confirming the response.

"What about with your friends?" she asks, "Or is this something with everyone in general?"

Your scrape a fingernail against the skin on the back of your hand, carving meaningless patterns, "Everyone."

"Do you think it might have something to do with what happened to you?" she brings up again.

You stay silent and avert your eyes; panic, uncertainty, bursting from within. You take a deep breath.

She notices, realizing you still have difficulty, "Or have you always been a little closed off?"

"Always," you confess quietly, grateful that she had a follow up question.

She keeps wording the questions so they're specifically designed for short answers. You can't decide if she's being deliberate because if she is then she's smarter than you're giving her credit for. She now knows you don't like to share and perhaps she's using that knowledge to work around the obstacle. After all, if you're only willing to answer with one or two words then getting you to say the right ones is all she needs to do.

"Even as a child?" she wonders, clicking the tip of her pen two times.

"I've never been that kind of person," you tell her, "I didn't have the kind of life to make that possible."

"Would you care to explain that to me?" she requests.

You inhale deeply, "It's never…been easy."

"I see," she nods, "Why not?"

You pause and take a moment to think carefully about your answer. There are so many things you could say but they all come down to something quite simple.

"Well, I'm…uh…I'm gay," you say, swallowing nervously, "I trust you understand how that…answers the question."

She raises her eyebrows, enlightened with your confession. You know she wasn't expecting a response as straightforward as that but you didn't want to say it any other way. One of the best things about leaving Lima and being in college and New York City was discovering actual self acceptance. None of that _pretending_ to be okay with who you are like in high school. Your sexuality hasn't been a struggle of yours for quite some time now.

"I know you didn't…really ask but…" you continue, "You should probably know that, I think."

"No, no," she says, tilting her head with small smile, "…thank you for telling me."

"Does that…change things?" you wonder.

"How so?" she frowns.

"I don't know," you shrug, "It's always…changed something before."

"It doesn't change anything, Santana," she reassures, "Except that…now I know more about you than I did a minute ago."

You breathe out, a corner of your mouth tugging upwards into a very discrete smile.

"Would you like to talk about that some more?" she offers.

"About being gay?" you ask, scrunching your nose.

"Or about how it made things harder," she suggests, "Like what you were saying earlier."

"I mean…I went to a small school in a small town in Ohio," you say, "I think it's pretty self explanatory."

Dr. Bryant scribbles a few notes down on her clipboard.

"And…people were…uh," you start, losing yourself in the memories, "It was hard. I don't really know how else to describe it."

"Okay," she nods, smiling kindly, "So…that part of you made it particularly difficult to be honest with yourself, with your friends and everybody in general."

"Yeah," you confirm.

"And that still happens now," she assumes, rolling her pen between her thumb and index finger, "That's why you were unable to tell anyone about the incident."

Any lighthearted feeling you had is replaced with dread. You feel bits of strength peel off and fall away like when packs of ice break off of mountains. It even takes more energy to breathe, as if either your chest cavity shrunk or your lungs swelled.

"Santana?"

You shake from your thoughts and meet her eyes again, "I'm sorry, yeah."

"What did you do just now?" she wonders.

"Huh?"

"When I referred to the incident," she explains, "What did you think about?"

You frown, brow furrowing as you search for an answer, "I, uh…I don't know. I-I just spaced out, I'm sorry."

"No, I'm not accusing you," she says calmly, "I'd like to know what your mind was going through when I brought it up."

"It…uh…" you struggle, finding it difficult to articulate, "I don't know, it just gets…heavier."

"What does?"

"Everything," you confess, allowing your eyes to glaze over into another dimension, "And dark."

"Dark?"

"Yeah," you answer slowly.

"Does this happen all the time?" she wonders, "Whenever you're slightly reminded?"

Your eyes begin to sting and air begins to disappear like it's slipping through every crack in the room. This is about the time you'd resort to a certain solution but one you have no way of carrying out right now. You can't let this be another setback like last night was. You can't lose control right now. Though you'd give anything to free this weight from your shoulders, these thoughts from your mind, you know you can't. You know you have to stop thinking of drugs as a solution but the craving is there.

"How do you deal with it when this happens?" she tries again after no response.

You look up at Dr. Bryant and realize that maybe you have to use her. Maybe it'll take the edge off if you told her what you wanted to do right now but that's a lot easier said than done. The moment you part your lips your courage evaporates into nothing. She sits patiently, eyes studying you and noticing how you've started to tremble.

Tears blur your vision. You close your eyes to stop more from coming. She doesn't talk or ask any more questions just yet and you just shrug casually to try to make light of the situation, hoping it will prevent you from being forced into a corner you from which don't know how to escape. You shrug and blow out a heavy breath to fight the pressure.

"I um…I have a…" you begin hesitantly, "I would…take something."

She leans forward, "Okay, what kind of something?"

You shake your head, detesting the words that leave your lips, "Like…drugs."

"Drugs?" she repeats, brow lifting curiously, "What in particular?"

"Cocaine," you mumble softly, but loud enough for her because you'd rather not say it again.

She notes that down but to your surprise, there is no judgment in her expression when she returns to you. That's not something you're used to. When the girls found out…well, you don't have to remind yourself how their faces looked.

"And that helped you?" she continues, as if you hadn't confessed anything extreme.

You frown until you realize soon enough that it's not part of her job to have an opinion.

"Uh, I mean…no but it was…" you struggle, "I was…trying to escape."

"Escape from what exactly?" she probes.

You shrug, "My head? I don't know, my reality, my world?"

"Why did you need to escape?"

"Because it was too much," you answer quickly, voice quivery too.

You lower your eyes out of guilt, stinging with tears. You've never been interrogated like this before. No one has ever asked you so much about the drugs before.

"Are you still using?" she wonders, "Are you in a program for that?"

It comes back to you; all of last night and this morning. After she sat on the floor with you and cleaned up the blood, Brittany told you how she really felt. She said rehab had to happen. Remember how you said you were angry too? That's why. In addition to feeling ashamed that she had to see you such a low moment, you can't help but feel betrayed. Brittany promised you she'd find another solution but as of this morning, you're officially admitted thanks to her.

"I…um…I start rehab tomorrow actually," you confess timidly.

"I see," she nods, writing that down too, "And this all started after your incident, as a result of the trauma?"

Trauma. You've never referred to it as that before. Dr. Bryant makes it sound much more intense by using that word and it triggers something. It's harder to stop the tears now. She has already seen more of you than most people ever will so you don't try as hard to hide your feelings. You quickly reach up to brush away the few drops that leaked onto your cheek with a gentle thumb.

"Would you like to stop for today?" she says suddenly.

You peer up to evaluate her sincerity. When you see that she means it, you break into a relieved sigh and nod, eyes still watering.

She sets her pen down on her clipboard, "It's very normal to be overwhelmed, Santana. This process is going to be challenging."

"I know," you say with a grainy voice.

"But you're here and that's already a solid foundation to build up from," she reassures you.

"Okay," you say.

She stands up from her chair, "Now, sessions would normally be an hour but I know the first time can be difficult so it's okay."

"I…can go?" you ask politely, feeling the urgent need to breathe some fresh air.

She smiles softly, "Of course, but I will be seeing you on Wednesday, correct?"

You tighten your lips to confirm and rise to your feet. You've been waiting to leave this room since the moment you walked in but something hits you suddenly. When you reach the door, you pause and hold the handle, gripping it tightly.

"No, no wait," you say, turning around to face Dr. Bryant again with an inexplicable burst of motivation, "This is what I do. When it gets hard, I run."

She takes off her glasses and sets them down on her desk, fingers intertwining with curiosity. Your body trembles lightly as you force a few walls down.

"You're supposed to help me stop doing that," you tell her, "Not encourage it."

Dr. Bryant leans back in her chair and studies you, "I have no authority in your decision to stay or leave, Santana."

"Yes you do," you say, "You tell me what to do."

"Is that what you want?" she wonders, "Someone to tell you what to do?"

"I want to get better!" you say loudly, and then let your voice die down, "I want to get better."

"That's good," she comments, "That's a good thing to want, Santana."

Without even realizing, you manage to find your way back to the sofa and sit down, "But I don't know how to do it. I don't have anything left to work with."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"After it happened, I just…lost it," you confess, "I gave up."

"Gave up what?"

"Everything?" you shrug helplessly, "School, friends…my own…health?"

"Why?" she questions, making her way around her desk to take her previous position in the chair.

You shake your head, tears flooding your eyes, "You can't live normally after something like that."

"You felt lost?" she suggests.

You laugh bitterly, "I wish that was all I felt."

Dr. Bryant frowns faintly at your remark.

Your voice becomes quiet, "It felt like someone cut me open, took out everything inside of me, literally, and then sewed me back up."

"Why didn't you go to see someone about it?" she wonders.

"If...if I told anyone, if I reported it," you start, feeling a few tears stain your cheek, "It meant that I had to…think about it and remember it and talk about it and that was just…too scary."

"What was too scary?" she asks.

"The whole thing," you confess, "The whole…the whole memory, the whole night."

"And what happened that night?"

You pause at the question. You look around and realize that you somehow wounded up back on the couch, saying some things that have never crossed your mind before. It shocks you. Therapy was supposed to be effective but you didn't think it'd work this quickly. You were on your way out a moment ago and now you're back on this couch confessing.

"Santana?" she says slowly to regain your attention, "Can you tell me what happened to you that night?"

Eventually your eyes meet hers again and an unknown force from deep within nudges the words towards your lips, the voice to your throat. You glance down at your hands to find them shaking nervously, and the rest of your body still trembles too. The tears have remained as stagnant puddles in your eyes and you fight to keep them constrained. You're scared, but it's nothing you've ever feared before. This time, you're afraid that the sentence is actually going to slip out. For so long, you've never had to worry about saying it because you never had the courage or the strength but now you can feel them. You can feel the words on the tip of your tongue. You can hear its sound echo quietly in your head. It's here.

"I was…" you begin.

Your stomach clenches, the nerves squeezing tightly into a bundled mess. Your heart keeps throwing itself around, as if your chest doesn't want it inside you anymore. Then your mouth opens again. Then lips move again. Then your voice sounds again. Then you say it.

"I was raped."

For the moment, you freeze. Every part of you stops in mid motion. You forget to breathe, listening to the echoes instead. There's nothing else in the room but you and that sentence right now. It floats further and further away from your lips and into the air, into the world. You have made it flesh. You have made it known. You have never been able to do that until now. You have been held hostage to that truth for months but you've been freed. And it wasn't someone else who freed you but your own self who did the rescuing. You said the words and now they are yours rather than you being theirs.

"How did it feel to say that?" Dr. Bryant asks carefully.

Your eyes find their way back to hers but remain lost in your newfound emotions. You're still trying to wrap your head around it. While the words still makes you nauseous, you feel some power over it and that's more than you could have said before. Maybe this was what you needed to do. Say it out loud. You were raped. That's what happened to you. It wasn't like you weren't certain. It wasn't like a term didn't exist. It was always there and you always knew it but only now have you learned how to acknowledge it.

"You've never said it before, have you?" she asks, disregarding your lack of verbal response.

You shake your head. You don't think you'll be able to say much else for a while now, not after that.

"Would you like to keep going?" she offers, glancing at her clock, "We _do _have time."

You watch her eyes and follow them to the device on the wall. It ticks, but not the same way it did out in the lobby. This time it's ticking towards something, like it _does _have somewhere to be, like you have something to look forward to. Your next session, maybe. But right now, you can't continue. The lump in your throat has swallowed your voice completely.

You shake your head again, parting your lips to try and answer but finding that you really can't.

"Sometimes the hardest part is saying it out loud," she reassures, "Especially since you worked so hard just to forget it. We live in a concrete world where things don't always feel real unless we can prove it with our senses. If we can see, hear, touch, taste or smell something, it's easier to convince ourselves it's actually there, it's actually real. The moment you say something out loud, something like "I was raped", then you can hear it and listen to the voice, the voice that you gave to it, and becomes part of reality again. I understand that can be scary."

You nod with every part of you in agreement.

"I want you to know that you are not out of control here," she reminds you, "I will push you to share, to communicate what you find difficult to express because that is my job but I'm not here to attack you. I guarantee there will be many times like this where you're overwhelmed but that's when you have the choice to continue or to stop."

You nod again, this time with timid voice, "Okay."

"So if you would like to leave, you're welcome to," she offers with a gentle smile, "But if you'd like to sit here until the end of your session, you can also do that."

"Okay," you repeat, mostly to get used to the sound of your voice again.

It takes time and a couple false starts before you finally bring yourself to your feet again.

"I think…I think I'd like to go," you admit.

"That's fine," she says.

This time, you're determined to make it past the door because there really isn't much else you can do in here today. The only thing that slows you down is seeing those three outside and trying to figure out how you're going to be around them after the huge step you just took in here. They're going to want to know how it went and you have to be ready with details. Or you could keep it simple and be honest; tell them you aren't ready to discuss it yet. Either way, you push yourself.

"Thank you," you say quietly.

Her face softens with a warm smile as she nods. You grip the handle again and, this time, manage to turn it with a deep breath. The door opens and you step out, eyes meeting blue so quickly it almost knocks you back into the room. Though Brittany's gaze was the first one you encountered, Quinn and Tina are the ones who rush to you.

"Hey," Tina approaches with a hint of worry in her tone.

Quinn reaches to rub your arm soothingly, "You okay?"

You hate the questions but they are only expected. You nod as a response.

"How'd it go?" Quinn asks but you're too focused on Brittany.

She has only just joined the small huddle since she took her time getting here. Her face remains calm but her eyes scream something else and you can hear it loud and clear.

"It was…okay," you finally answer.

"Yeah? Hey, that's good to hear," Tina says sweetly.

You tighten your lips to offer a smile. They know it's mostly to make them happy but you aren't entirely insincere with the gesture. Something does feel different now but you have yet to understand it fully. The only thing you can safely say is that the session didn't make things any_ worse. _If anything, this could be the start of 'better'.

"Come on," Quinn says, giving you a little hug as she nudges you towards the exit, "We can talk more at home."

Home sounds so good right now.

"Hey you guys hungry?"Tina says on the way out, "We could pick up pizza."

"Oooh yeah," Quinn replies, twisting her head to see your response.

"Sure," you murmur, pushing out a weak smile but finding that your thoughts about the session keep it from spreading any wider.

"Britt?" Tina asks, leading you to look behind at Brittany.

"Huh? Oh," she says, disoriented, "Yeah, yes."

"Awesome, I'll make the call so we can just go pick it up," Tina informs, pulling out her phone.

You all step out of the building and onto the sidewalk, Quinn still attached to your side while Tina leads and Brittany lags behind. You'd say something to her but you're caught in pedestrian traffic. Plus, you really want to get home. You spent enough time in a room with a stranger that you'd give anything to see your apartment again. The thought of tomorrow makes you feel sick; another strange room with a bunch of strange people with one main thing in common. Now you _really _can't look at Brittany.

xxxx

The four of you squished in a cab wasn't ideal. Certainly in no way or form was it comfortable either. You were so relieved when you stepped out onto the pavement after the ride and let the air freshen your lungs.

"Alright, you guys can head up," Tina says, "I'll go get the pizza."

The restaurant is a block down so she's going to walk there. You don't have the energy to accompany her and since pizza wasn't your idea, you don't feel obligated to help. You're not in the greatest mood and it's beginning to show. On top of your drama with Brittany, you keep remembering therapy and the three words you said in that room, the only part that really mattered about those forty-five minutes.

Tina starts walking, leaving you, Quinn and Brittany in front of your apartment building. Your eyes drift to Brittany's and linger briefly before you pull away. You can hear the sigh she releases shortly afterwards and it makes your stomach knot.

"Hey Tina, wait up," Brittany calls out and catches up with Tina, "I'll come with you."

You watch her jog away, shaking your head with frustration. It's too much to stand and look while the cool breeze triggers tiny shivers down your spine. You turn around and lead the way into the building.

"Um," Quinn starts hesitantly as you walk up the stairs, "What the hell was that?"

"What?" you say dumbly, pounding your feet against the ground.

"That," Quinn stresses, pointing a thumb behind her shoulder, "You and Britt are being weird."

"Forget it," you spit harshly, feeling a strange buildup of anger in your system.

"Hey," Quinn reaches out and grabs your arm, stopping you mid step, "If this is about this morning—"

"I'm going!" you interrupt, raising your voice, "I'm going, okay? It's done. You signed me up and _she _made damn sure of that."

"Are you serious right now?" Quinn warns, "You're mad at us for rehab?"

"No," you pause and sigh heavily, "I'm not…mad at you, Q."

"Oh so just Brittany then?" she retorts, "Just the girl who's done nothing but love you and worry about you and take care of you."

"She promised me, Quinn!" you exclaim, feeling a lump slip into your throat.

Somewhere nearby on the floor a door opens and breaks the conversation, forcing you to calm down. The man walks down the hallway to the stairs you're standing on and passes by quietly. You decide that you don't need this right now, not when you have so much more that you still need to think about from the session. You're beginning to wish you used up the last fifteen minutes of it instead of leaving early. You sigh and turn around, continuing up the last flight of stairs to your floor.

"Santana," Quinn starts again as she follows, "You really can't be mad at her for this."

"Not your call," you say sharply, ruffling for your keys as you walk down the hallway.

"Come on, it's Brittany," she says, "You know she—"

"Exactly," you interrupt, turning around in front of your door to face Quinn directly, "It's Brittany and I love her. So when the one person I thought would always be on my side makes me do something I'm so fucking terrified of it suddenly feels like me against the world now and I know that's stupid of me to say because all you guys do is help me and you signed me up for rehab because you're my best friend so you don't have to be on my side but Brittany is my girlfriend and that's her job. To be on my side. She's supposed to be on _my _side."

You take a much needed breath and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"That's just how I feel, Quinn," you finish, sticking the key into the door and letting yourself into the apartment, "I don't care if I'm wrong."

"Santana, that's ridiculous," Quinn chuckles, detouring to the fridge for a bottle of water.

"What?" you frown as you throw your keys into the bowl on the counter.

"You can't expect Brittany to always agree with you, especially if she doesn't feel the same way," Quinn explains, "She's not that kind of girl, why am I telling you this? You know this."

You pause to think temporarily, realizing that Quinn makes a valid point. Still, the problem remains because your feelings are true. You're hurt that she wasn't on your side. Maybe that makes you selfish but that shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone.

"Look you're not going to like this," Quinn starts, "But she did the right thing by telling me what happened last night, Santana."

"That doesn't make it okay," you spit, "I woke up this morning to find out that I'm going to rehab tomorrow. She didn't even tell _me _she was telling you."

"She knew you'd find a way to convince her not to," Quinn says.

"And she would listen because she'd see that I'm scared, Quinn," you confess, "I don't want to go to rehab. I don't want to be in a place like that. I don't want to be around people who are like me."

"Why not?" Quinn asks, "That's what helps; meeting people you can relate to."

"No, it's not like that," you snap, "We're not going to sit around and drink tea and braid each other's hair because we all like ponies and sunshine. I'm going to find out that one guy nearly OD'd on heroine or someone else sniffed too much coke they blacked out for two days. These aren't people I want to know. Some will be better off, some worse off and some will be just like me. At the end of the day it doesn't matter because we're all fucked up, Quinn. Every single one of us and I don't need a damn program to tell me that."

"Hola," Tina sings as she walks through the door, "Oh wait, I should probably say Buon Giorno since we're eating Italian."

Tension fills the room immediately. You can feel it in creeping on the surface of your skin.

"You know I'm suddenly not hungry," you say, glaring at Quinn before brushing past all three of them and leaving the apartment again.

"What?" Tina says sadly, "Wait where are you going?"

"She's going to the roof," Quinn says with a sigh, "She's fine, she just needs some time."

That was the last thing you heard before the voices faded. You climb up the stairs until you reach the top and push through the heavy door, that lovely breeze hitting you the same way it did yesterday, through the gaps in your hair and across the curves of your face.

You continue to the edge and rest your hands on the cement bank, leaning out. The only sounds are the distant ones from below and the wind blowing against your ears.

You actually manage to forget about everyone else temporarily. For once, you are the only thing you are concerned about right now.

The moment you start listening to your thoughts again, you hear it. You don't have to say it out loud to remember what it sounded like. Every tone in that sentence will stay with you for a while. After all, it's the sound of progress and you'll carry it with you to the next step. It's where you begin, where all of this began.

Raped. Still bitter and disgusting, but now bearable because of that session.

"It's too cold to be up here."

You don't have to turn around to know who it is. A part of you knew she'd follow you, the other part begged you'd be wrong.

"I'll manage," you reply, keeping your eyes ahead of you.

"Santana," she says slowly.

"Don't," you stop her, "Don't do this. I can't do this with you right now."

"You say it like I'm the one who started this, Santana," she defends.

You look to the street below and kick the concrete stubbornly. Brittany's footsteps grow closer and your body recognizes her as she approaches, the unsettling beat of your heart arriving as expected.

"Look at me," she orders softly.

You don't budge. Brittany is close behind you now, within reaching distance you think.

"Look at me," she repeats, this time a lot stronger and with a hand gripping your arm, "_Why _are you upset with me?"

"You told Quinn!" you confess, eyes finding hers harshly when you spin around.

She frowns, "What?"

"About last night, you told her," you explain, "You told her and now I have to go tomorrow."

She straightens her posture, "You're mad at me because I told Quinn about last night?"

"I'm not mad at you," you claim falsely.

Brittany shakes her head, "You're a horrible liar, Santana."

"Screw you," you snap and attempt to pass her.

"Don't walk away from me," she warns, towering over you.

Her voice sinks to a tone you have never heard before and it frightens you. The moment you feel fear creep into your system, Brittany notices is it too. Her eyes widen and she backs off immediately.

"I'm sorry," she shuts her eyes briefly, "Santana, I'm sorry. I just..."

"You said—you promised me," you remind her, "That you'd find another way."

"And I broke it!" she exclaims, "I know I broke my promise. I spent all night, while you fell asleep, thinking about how I was going to break my promise, okay?"

You suck in a breath, surprised that she didn't deny it. You're getting nervous now.

"I'm sorry I did that," she adds, "I'm sorry that I hurt you. But…I _won't _apologize for telling Quinn."

You frown, "You won't…?"

"I won't," she confirms, tears filling her eyes, "I can't, Santana. I need you to go to rehab."

"Oh _y__ou _need me to go?" you repeat, backing away from her, "Well then I should just go, right? If you need me to go then—"

"Stop," she cries, "I need you to do this."

"Why?!" you ask harshly.

"Because I can't do this anymore!" she responds, sucking in a breath once it leaves her lips.

You retract, lips parted and eyes widened. Brittany turns around and takes a few steps in that direction, away from you. Her hands come up to cover her face and you can hear her breathes push in and out of her body. It's your turn to say something but you're too shocked to muster the energy to form a response.

Everything remains silent while you watch her regain her composure. You try to organize the traffic in your head but it all moves fast and stays stuck at the same time. Collisions keep happening too; two, three, four thoughts crashing together every second so that instead of a conclusion, you're left with broken bits of incoherent ideas.

"Brittany," you say softly.

She turns around, eyes red and face pink. She wipes the fresh tears and looks to the ground, avoiding your eyes. You don't know anything about the sudden splitting in your chest except that it hurts like nothing you've felt before. Much worse than last night.

"What did you say?" you ask, voice cracking midway.

Brittany shuts her eyes tightly to fight the oncoming tears, "I'm…"

Something swallows her voice and you take a step forward, suddenly forgetting that you're angry because the instinct you have to protect Brittany from whatever hurts her overpowers anything else.

She blows out a breath and tries again, "I know…that…it's hard for you. I can't…imagine how hard it is for you. That's why I don't…want to tell you this because it makes me feel horrible."

Your heart races, discovering tempos it's never reached before, not even when you were high.

"Tell me what?" you say, fear poisoning your tone.

She shakes her head, tears still dripping onto her cheeks. Brittany looks up to the sky and focuses on breathing, alternating between clenching her fists and then relaxing her hands. You've never seen her like this before.

"Brittany?" you say again, closing more distance.

"It's hard for me too," she confesses, meeting your eyes, "I don't sleep. Or eat or study. I don't do anything but think about what happened to you."

You take a deep breath, feeling the tears sting in your own eyes now. They slip out quickly, staining the skin on your cheeks.

"And last night was like…a wakeup call for me," she continues, betweens gasps, "I keep trying to tell myself to be bigger than this because _you're_ the one that got hurt. _You _need me to be here for you but I can't _just _do that. I thought I could just be what you wanted me to be, Santana, but I can't. I can't just sit around and do nothing anymore because it hurts me too."

You're heart speeds so fast, the blood pumping like fireworks inside your veins. You don't even remember the anger you were feeling moments ago. It's replaced by something you don't quite recognize; only that it's powerful and it's _so _much worse than feeling angry. In fact, this poison leaking inside you makes you wish you were back to being mad at her.

"You are the love of my life," she says, pausing to sob, "You've never been anything less, but I don't look at you anymore and see our future. All I see is the possibility of actually _losing _you. And that's not how it's supposed to work between two people. So I did what I knew I had to do and if that makes you hate me then you're just going to have to hate me."

You focus on her eyes and hear every word she said echoing around you. The gaze burns so much that you have to blink to endure the passion she sends your way.

Without thought, you take a step forward. And then another one. And then another one. And then all the ones left until you're only inches away. You peer up and she peers down, both breathing heavily. Her brow crinkles with worry, face tainted with sadness, so you reach up and hold it on both sides. Your palms graze her cheeks and pull her closer to your body. She leans forward, closing her eyes briefly when you thumb away her leaked tears.

When she peels them open again, you search deep into the grey shadows that were once so blue and that alone is enough to break your heart. This isn't what you wanted. You see that so clearly now.

Your eyes fall to her lips. You lean in as if to kiss her but then pull back hesitantly, the nerves in your stomach twitching as if shocked by electricity. You move your hands to her neck and drop your gaze to the floor, tugging her forehead to meet yours. You lose your fingers in her hair, clenching fistfuls of blonde desperately. Her hand comes up to grip your forearm, clinging to you too.

"I don't want this for you," you whisper, the lump in your throat scraping higher, tears coming.

She sniffs, breaking out into a quiet sob, "Santana…"

"No," you stop her again, lifting up, "I _don't _want this."

She frowns, eyes glossier than ever, "What do you want?"

It kills you to know the answer. You wish you didn't. You wish it was something else. What Brittany told you was important because even though you knew it already, knew she was hurting, you didn't want to believe it. You tried not to but now she's made it official and thereby impossible to deny.

"I want you to go," you confess, composure crumbling by the second.

She retracts, eyes flooding with fear, "What?"

You nod calmly, but the burns remain, "For now, for a while."

Brittany shakes her head, gripping your arm tighter, "No, I'm…I'm not going."

Your hands come back to cup her face firmly, tears now streaming down your face.

"You can't do this anymore," you tell her, "Not while I'm still…like this."

Her frown deepens because she doesn't like where this is heading. Even though you knew she wouldn't, you still wish she denied it and said she could, said she'd stay. But you know you can't ask that of her anymore.

"It's okay," you continue, your chest caving in slowly, painfully, "I can't be the reason you're unhappy, that's too much on my plate."

She closes her eyes and gives in, quiet sobs breaking from her lips, "But I love you."

"I know," you say quickly, rising on your toes to pull her into a hug.

Brittany's arms find their way around you and meet behind your back, bringing you flush against her tightly. You shut your eyes too and secure your arms around her neck, sniffing and blowing out breaths to fight the crying.

"But it's not enough," you say, "I know it's not enough for you."

It isn't like the hugs you shared yesterday or before that. There's an eerie twist in your stomach and it blackens everything inside you.

"I'm not leaving you," she murmurs.

"You're not," you agree, coming back face to face, "You're just doing what you have to do."

"Don't make me go," she pleads.

You stroke her cheek, "You have to."

Her face falls, "No, I should be here with you."

"You will," you tell her, "Someday. But I can't give you what you need, Brittany. Not right now, so I don't want you to settle for anything less."

"But," she says, gasping, "But what about you?"

You swallow hardly, looking straight into her eyes, "Brittany…I was raped."

Her eyes widen, searching yours desperately for an explanation, a reason, anything at all.

"I've never been able to say that before," you tell her, "Therapy? It's…gonna work, B, and I'm…going to get better."

"And…rehab?" she says carefully.

You lower your eyes, weight dragging your confidence down, "Yeah…well. I guess that too."

She reaches for your hand and holds it against her chest, "You know why I did it, right?"

You nod, breathing in deeply, "I'm just scared."

"Then don't push me away," she begs, "I meant what I said but that doesn't mean I don't want to be with you."

"I'm not pushing you away," you correct her, eyes focusing on the way your hands are against her heart, "I…want you to go."

"You want me to go?" she repeats, her breathing escalating, eyes burdened with anxiety.

"You want to be here for me," you start, your voice all scratched and grainy, "But you don't _really_ want to be here."

"That's not true, Santana," Brittany defends, stepping closer.

"No, no, no, it's okay," you hush, tears flooding your eyes and spilling out, "I never wanted to bring you into this. I never should have. I've always seen how it hurts you. I don't want this either. I want you to be happy. I want you to live without having to worry about something every single second of the day."

"How is making me go going to make me worry less?" she asks, frowning incredulously, "What about last night? What if that happens again and...I'm not...?"

"I have Quinn," you remind her, your voice down to just a wounded whisper, "And Tina. You know they'll take care of me. Maybe friends are what I need. Maybe a relationship is too much."

"I can...I can be a friend," she says desperately.

"No, you can't," you say, "Even if you could, I can't."

"Santana," she trembles, still crying, "Are you breaking up with me?"

You tilt your head and feel the pressure swallow you whole, knock down all your walls, all your strength. She sounded so broken. You'd do anything to make that go away. That's the thing; you'd do anything. Right now, that means walking away.

Brittany may have been the one thing that was supposed to keep you together through all of this, but you're not going to make her stay if she's miserable. You're just going to have to try harder. Use Quinn and Tina more. You're going to have to learn how to pick up the pieces on your own. Maybe this is a good thing? Maybe you won't have to depend on her so much anymore. But no matter what you say, even if it does offer some comfort, this is still one of the hardest things you've had to do.

Brittany finds the answer in your eyes. You don't have to say it. Her frown intensifies but you interrupt it with a kiss. Your lips meet hers and press together hardly, messily, but still as passionately, if not more, than any other you've shared. She clenches your shirt into a fist at your back and you keep pulling her mouth closer, shutting your eyes so tight that even the darkness blinds you. When you part briefly, you breathe against her and find her lips again, saving every taste and feeling that hits you so you can remember it when she's not around anymore.

Then, like ripping off a Band-Aid, you break away and brush right past her, noticing how her strength collapses and her body weakens once you've let go. You rush to the exit and down the stairs. You promise yourself not to look back. After all, you can't afford to. It's only forward and ahead now. It has to be.

* * *

**A/N: Firstly, I'm so sorry about keeping you waiting. I was so busy with finishing high school and my graduation that I honestly had no time. Then when all that was over, I had a bunch of senior trips and stuff. And then I just got lazy and tired, so that one's my bad. But, I told you I don't give up on my stories and I meant that. Although, you might wish after this chapter that I had. I know I broke up Brittana, I'm sorry but it's for the best, you'll see. It does, however, mean that there won't be so much direct Brittana interaction for a while but this story has always been more of a Santana's journey than it has been theirs as a couple. Thanks to everyone who is still reading despite my disgusting attempt to update frequently. Love you xx **

**And just a heads up, therapy is going to get a lot more graphic so I'll put trigger warnings up when necessary, but I'm also warning you now. **


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Trigger warning for the rape scene. This is the most graphic encounter of the rape in the story so for those to whom it deeply concerns, and of course everyone in general, please read with care and know that this is not a theme that I take lightly. I have my own reasons for writing something this heavy and the story means a lot to me so I always try with my best effort to portray the content respectfully and maturely. Thank you for being a wonderful audience in return. **

* * *

**Chapter 18: And That Ghost Was Me **

"Yeah, I know. I can't believe it. Apparently it was Santana's decision."

You catch the last part of their conversation when you swing open your bedroom door and enter the living room. Their voices fall silent so quickly, as if ripped from their throats and dropped from a steep, sudden cliff. Quinn and Tina freeze temporarily when they see you and even if you hadn't heard them, you could easily tell from their expressions that you were the subject.

"Hey?" Quinn says with a hint of uneasiness in her tone, "We were just...wondering when you'd be up."

You breathe out knowingly and take your steps. They share a hesitant look while you approach them at the counter. They were talking about you and Brittany. You don't blame them. When you came down from the roof yesterday, there was nothing you could say. You didn't have it in you to explain or defend yourself. Brittany came down shortly afterwards and must have filled in the blanks. You heard her from your room but you didn't dare go out.

"Try not to look so guilty and maybe I'd believe you," you retort.

"Sorry," Tina apologizes, "We just didn't know if you were...okay with the whole…Brittany thing."

"We're just taking some time," you tell them while you reach for a bottle of water from the fridge.

You'd feel better about that statement if you still thought it was a good idea. A lot about yesterday has now had time to process. You spent all night and all this morning thinking, doubting.

"That's very...mature of you, San," Quinn comments but keeps her confused frown, "But how long are you expecting this to last?"

You sigh, scratching your brow, "I don't know."

"Wait," Tina says slowly, "So are you guys…I mean, did you break up or…?"

"I didn't…break up with her," you admit, even though you recall Brittany asking the question, "Or I did but…it wasn't like that. She needs time and maybe…maybe I need some too."

Quinn shrugs, "Do you really though?"

"It was my decision," you say firmly, annoyed with her accusation but only because there's a good chance she has a point.

"We just..." Tina starts, choosing her words carefully, "We just think it might not be the best thing to do right now."

You set the bottle down on the counter and look up sharply, "Okay I'm getting a little tired of you telling me what I need and then making decisions for me based on that."

"Santana, we're just—"

"Please don't say worried," you interrupt Quinn, rolling your eyes, "I know that already. But you're starting to take things a little too far now."

They avert their eyes shamefully, guilt cracking their expressions.

"Look, Brittany and I, I don't know," you hesitate, "Yesterday was an overwhelming day, okay? Maybe it wasn't the best time to make a decision like that…maybe I shouldn't have made her go but...it happened."

Tina glances at Quinn carefully before turning to you, "She called us this morning."

You pause, clenching your jaw.

"She doesn't want things this way, Santana," Tina reveals.

"What'd she say?" you ask, softening your tone.

Tina doesn't answer you but takes the phone out of her pocket and sets it down on the counter instead. She inches it closer, but doesn't go as far as sliding it.

"You could ask her yourself," she suggests, "And believe me, she'll answer."

You stare at the phone and the worst part is that you want to pick it up and dial her number. You want to hear her voice. You want to see her. This was supposed to work; you were supposed to give her time and she was supposed to take it but it seems both of you are having trouble.

"No, I've got somewhere to be," you finally say, refusing the chance, "Don't I, Quinn?"

Your tone is bitter, hitting her harshly.

"Right," she says softly, nodding.

Tina retracts and puts the phone back in her pocket.

"So um…it's just an appointment today, okay? You can't start anything until you do this interview thing," Quinn says, "We're going to see how we could get things going, what options we have."

"What options _I_ have," you correct, "And that includes the option of not starting yet, doesn't it?"

She sighs heavily, "Yes, it does. Look, I know you think I admitted you yesterday but that's not even possible. You have to sign things and fill out forms before so…nothing is…decided."

"Well lucky me, right?" you say bitterly.

You can tell your particularly "chipper" attitude is wearing down her patience and tolerance but you don't care. You have neither the desire to be at this appointment nor the facility itself and you resent Quinn for doing this to you and Tina for not stopping her.

xxx

You feel your stomach drop and your insides shudder the moment you step out of the cab. The drive was long enough so that the nerves and the fear you had when you left home could fade but now they've come sprinting back as though they'd never left. You've been dreading this since you found out about it. On top of that, there are so many different emotions, some blooming, others rotting, and it makes you so nauseous you might pass out.

The facility is quite large and open; a lot like a school. You take a deep breath and start towards the reception building, wishing more than anything that you had _her_ hand to reach out and hold. Among the dread has been your immense doubt, sparked by the rash decision you made about Brittany. You spent all of last night thinking. You barely slept and it wasn't nightmares that interrupted you this time. You just lay in bed, still and calm. In a way, that was scarier than waking up from a haunted dream.

"So remember," Quinn says just before you reach the front doors, "This is just the interview today."

You nod and try to think of it as a good thing. You're glad the admission process isn't final yet. Apparently you have to meet with someone here first and then discuss options and arrangements prior to joining. You're not a patient yet, despite thinking that was the deal yesterday. Still, that could change so you keep your guard up.

"You ready?" Quinn asks.

You turn to her, eyes sharp and resentful, "Let's not pretend that makes a difference."

She breathes in heavily, "I know we didn't handle this the ideal way—"

"No," you say forcefully, cutting off her words, "…we didn't."

Without giving her a chance to respond, you turn and walk into the center. Your heart pounds in your ears, louder than your own footsteps. You glance around the facility and think about what it would be like to live here for thirty days. You can't even stomach the thought for more than five seconds, barely arriving at the front desk in one piece.

"Uh, hi. We have an appointment with Dr. Kingsley," Quinn informs the receptionist, "Under Santana Lopez."

She types your name down into the database.

"Right," the lady says with a bright smile, "Could you fill out this form, ma'am?"

She hands the papers to Quinn, who then corrects her so she can redirect them to you. If you had the energy, you'd laugh because that's exactly what the receptionist is supposed to do; give the papers to the person who made the appointment, the one who _decided _to come here in the first place. You can't decide if that makes you angry, hurt, pathetic or all of the above.

It's all quite similar to the one you filled out for your therapy with Dr. Bryant. Background information, insurance, payment options and all the other basic, technical points. You assume that it'll be used to create a profile when you come to start the actual program.

"Need any help?" Quinn offers politely.

You look up at her from the clipboard, glaring, "No, this I can actually do on my own."

She retracts and sighs sadly, knowing she should stay quiet now. You continue filling out the form. You don't mean to be so rude but none of this has gone the way you wanted. Rehab may have always been in the cards for you but you thought you'd at least get the choice of when to do it. Quinn and Tina _and _Brittany; they all stepped in and chose for you. Maybe they don't realize because you have given them so much to worry about that those worries have obscured their judgment. Either way, this upsetting feeling is one you cannot stand.

"Sorry," Quinn murmurs.

You sigh too, "I didn't…mean to snap."

She perks up, "Do you wanna talk about anything?"

You don't, but by the looks of it Quinn really does. You're not going to give her that satisfaction though.

You stand up and head straight back to the counter without responding to Quinn. The lady takes your form and you wait for another five minutes. Quinn waits silently beside you but you can practically hear her mind working like gears.

You pick up a magazine at one point and flip through it. After that you play a puzzle game on your phone, finding that, several times, you just want to exit it, scroll through your contacts and call the one person you actually want to see. Before you can make that move, you're approached by the same receptionist and another lady.

"This is Lisa," the receptionist introduces, "She's going to show you around before you meet with Dr. Kingsley."

You smile weakly and shake the woman's hand, watching as Quinn does the same afterwards. Lisa leads you down the hall to the end where there are another set of doors. They open into an outdoor pathway, surrounded by a green garden. If it weren't for the traffic sounds, you could swear you were in another state.

"This is the green, as we like to call it," Lisa informs, "We try to offer a comfortable and relaxed environment that people can appreciate while they're here, but this city does make that rather challenging."

"So can…people leave?" you ask hesitantly.

"Of course," she says with a smile, "I know, rehab might sound like cells and barred windows but it isn't like that at all. There are programs scheduled throughout the day, but people come and go as they wish depending on their treatment plan. Outpatients have that freedom. Some inpatients do as well but they return at the end of the day. Then there are other cases where it is prohibited due to specific circumstances, whether medical or by regulation."

You take a deep breath. Outpatient—not actually living here but coming to the sessions—is the only one you want to do right now if you had to choose. Living here would feel too entrapping, suffocating.

"And how long do people usually attend?" Quinn asks.

"Oh well that also depends," she answers, "We have the standard 30 day and a 90 day, but there are longer term programs as well."

The path continues straight for a while until it splits into opposite directions; the left wing and the right wing as you read on the sign. Lisa takes you to the left and it's another short walk until you find another building.

"What's in the right wing?" Quinn wonders.

"The right wing is the medical facility," she informs, "We carry out services such as Detox, drug screenings, and other health procedures for those who require it."

"And the left?" you say nervously as you enter the left wing building.

"This is where the meetings and sessions take place," she explains as you walk down the wide hallway.

There are different rooms on either side, people walking up and down the hall, or some just standing, talking amongst one another. Everyone, to your surprise, looks kind of normal. Not that you had some ridiculous idea that addicts were a different species, but they just seem like ordinary people, the kind one would find on a city sidewalk. You keep looking around you, peeking into a few rooms.

"So things like therapy, both individual and group," Lisa continues, "Classes, lectures, meditation, AA and NA meetings."

"Lectures?" you repeat, surprised, "Like…like with professors?"

She chuckles, "Well…something like that. For example, we have drug and alcohol education seminars here where people can learn more about their addiction. You know…causes, effects, symptoms, dangers."

You get the picture soon enough, reminding yourself that calling it a school was more accurate than you thought.

You share a look with Quinn and swallow nervously. This place and these people aren't quite living up to your expectations. You haven't seen anybody who looks like they're on the brink of exploding from anxiety or ready to throw a chair out the window because it's their only escape. Maybe that was dramatic of you to think but before you arrived here all you had was a stereotypical, exaggerated view.

"This is one of our introductory group meetings," Lisa says when she pulls up to a room, "Most are newly admitted as well, within the last week or two that is."

"Oh, okay," you acknowledge, peering in to find people standing a chatting while a circle of chairs is set up further into the room.

"In these meetings, you are not obligated to participate in any discussion that you feel uncomfortable with," Lisa explains, "The only thing that is asked of you is that you maintain an open mind and that you try to show up to all sessions that are scheduled."

A few nerves settle down at that closing statement, but you still tremble lightly before the entrance of this room.

"Do they have…sponsors, these members?" Quinn wonders.

"Oh, of course, right," Lisa says, suddenly remembering, "People do find themselves electing sponsors once they have grown accustomed to the environment and found trust in others. However it, again, isn't an obligation. We also have 'advisors' which are more like professionals here at the center that are assigned to you, at your request, to work with throughout the process."

"Okay," Quinn nods, smiling politely.

You don't think you're ever going to trust someone enough here to make them your sponsor and you certainly don't want _another _therapist. You try to convince yourself that you won't need that kind of support; your friends and Dr. Bryant are enough.

Though you see things differently now that you're actually here, you still meant what you said yesterday. You don't really want to know these people. You don't really want to spend too much time here because everyone is essentially a version of yourself and that scares you.

"So why don't we head on over to Dr. Kingsley now?" Lisa smiles, gesturing that you follow her again.

She leads you and Quinn into the room at the end of the hall. You peer into the other rooms that you pass by, noticing some of the activities that Lisa mentioned taking place. You take time to study your surroundings; the paintings and posters on the wall, the light shining through windows, the distant discussions that fill the building.

"Caleb," Lisa calls for when she opens the door.

The man looks up from his chair. His short red-brown hair shines in the sunlight from the window behind him. He looks no more than his mid thirties, if you had to guess. His face is kind and his smile so white from the teeth that emerge when he parts his lips.

"This is Santana Lopez," she continues, "She has an appointment."

He walks around his desks and comes to you, extending a hand, "Hi, Santana, it's great to meet you. I'm Dr. Kingsley, but please feel free to call me Caleb."

You nod with a pressed smile, "Thank you for…having me."

His smile never wavers. It even grows with your comment.

"And this is her friend, Quinn," Lisa adds.

"Quinn, it's nice to meet you," he greets politely, shaking her hand.

"Likewise," Quinn replies, smiling back.

"Well, if there's nothing left I can do for you," Lisa says sweetly.

"Thanks, Lis," he says, reaching to put a hand on her arm gently before she backs out of the room.

"Thank you," you tell her, just as she leaves.

Once she's gone, Caleb gestures towards the seating area in his office. You and Quinn find a place on the couch while he occupies his chair.

He doesn't frighten you, which is good, but he makes you nervous. They have been so welcoming that it feels unnatural. You probably should have expected that considering the people that come here _need_ to feel comfortable and safe in this environment. The only thing that bothers you is that they seem to be too considerate and kind. You're not used to that. Of course, Quinn and Tina, and Brittany most of all, act similarly but let's not forget you worked in a bar for some time. You're used to the kind of company that isn't so thoughtful and gentle.

"So…Santana," Caleb starts, and you swallow nervously, "You're thinking about joining us?"

"Yes," you answer plainly.

He nods, "I trust Lisa showed you around."

"She did," you say.

"And what do you think of the place?" he wonders.

"It's…" you pause, choosing words wisely, "…different."

"Different?" he says, smiling, "I'm not sure I've heard that one yet."

"I only meant…" you say nervously, "…I'm not used to it yet."

"Well fair enough," he shrugs, "It's a new place, new group of people. So why did you decide to come today?"

You almost choke on your own breath. His question only emphasizes how wrong your answer is. You turn to Quinn and see how she avoids looking at you because she knows what you're thinking.

"My friends…actually," you answer truthfully, "They…sort of handled the decision."

He frowns faintly, turning to Quinn, "That's…thoughtful of them…"

Caleb finishes the sentence as if wanting to say something else but realizing it might be overstepping. He notices the tension between you and Quinn, shifting his weight curiously.

"I always love to see patients with large, strong support systems," he starts, "But I do always say that the last pen to sign the paper belongs to whom the contract concerns."

A part of you gets lost trying to understand what means while another keeps picking at it like a puzzle.

"Basically," he says, clearing his throat, "This is a decision that only you get to finalize as you are the one who will be in the program. It's your time, your commitment. Nobody can make this choice for you."

You want to laugh again, but you bite your tongue. Instead you just turn to Quinn, wishing she would face back so you can get a good look her reaction to that.

"I'm sorry," he says, "Is there a problem?"

You sigh, shaking your head, "No, I'm sorry. Please, continue."

"Okay," Caleb says slowly, regaining his train of thought, "So, tell me, what would you be expecting from us here?"

You take a deep breath, and click your tongue a few times, "Uhm…what I assume everyone expects. A recovery."

"And what is it you are in need to recover from?" he questions.

"I have a problem with substance abuse," you inform him vaguely, "It started back in October but until a few weeks ago I've tried to stop. It's been...difficult."

"Would you care to tell me what substance you have a problem with?" he asks carefully.

"Uh…" you hesitate, "Is that…necessary for today's meeting?"

He eyes you studiously, gaze thinning by the second, until he sighs with a smile, "No, ma'am. Would you like to hear about options?"

"Sure," you reply, applauding yourself for staying in control.

He continues on to introduce treatment plans and programs, including outpatient and inpatient, short-term and long-term. The discussion moves into other services such as the medical department and residential care but you find yourself half in and half out.

You're listening to him and nodding along and asking questions where needed but you're not really invested. Your eyes always glaze over, little attention paid to the pamphlets he gives out. You know it might be disrespectful but, if you're being completely honest, you don't really care. The only thing you think about is what he said about it being _your _choice.

"So do you have any questions for me?" he asks, wrapping up the appointment.

"I think I've heard what I need to hear," you say confidently, looking to Quinn who has remained quiet.

By the time the meeting ends, you're more ready to leave the facility. There are no concrete plans yet but you have the information and a foundation to build from now.

As you leave the center, Quinn tags along beside you, still quiet and seemingly guilty. Much to your surprise, you feel better about rehab knowing that you weren't wrong to not be ready. The only people at fault are your friends who didn't take that into enough consideration and you can say that because a professional said basically the same thing too.

You can final breathe freely when you step onto the street, the traffic music to your ears after spending an hour in that office.

"How do you feel?" Quinn finally asks.

You stick your hands in your coat pockets and face her, "Better now that I know I had the right to not want to come."

She nods, without hesitating, "I know."

"Do you, now?" you say sarcastically.

She looks at the pavement, "Santana, I realize that we may have…_I _may have been out of line yesterday. I really shouldn't have made that appointment without making sure you were on board too."

"You're…joking, right?" you laugh bitterly.

She tilts her head, brow furrowing.

"Was I not yelling loudly enough yesterday?" you ask angrily.

You stare her down and shake your head. You don't even really want to talk about it anymore so you start walking down the street, focusing on the refreshing glow from the outdoors instead of your frustration.

"Where are you going?" Quinn says, catching up.

"I'm walking," you tell her, "Or are you not going to let me decide that either?"

"Okay, I'm sorry," she says, reaching for your arm and stopping you, "I'm sorry. I get it now. I shouldn't have done it. I made a mistake."

"I don't want to hear it right now, Q," you say strongly, "This is the last appointment you're going to make for me unless I ask you to make one."

Her face falls and if you weren't mad, you might feel sorry for her but that's out of the cards right now. Instead, you sigh and continue walking down the street, and she joins again after some time.

It's silent because neither of you want to say anything. Well,_ you_ don't at least. Quinn probably has a thousand questions she'd like to ask. She still doesn't know much about what happened between you and Brittany.

That's what plagues your mind right now; Brittany. You said you should both take time but that not really what you wanted at all. Not having to go to rehab just yet makes things slightly better because at least you don't have to go through that without her. But you doubt whether you should have been so sure to send her away for a while.

There's a difference between making the right decision and the wrong one. You know that now because as you walk away from the center; something beams inside of you, like a light. When you walked away from Brittany, there was only darkness.

* * *

**#2: "Because that's what he did."**

"I thought about what you said last time," you say timidly, but with a growing motivation, "About the senses. About how things only feel real when you can use them."

Dr. Bryant's face lightens with intrigue and that's enough for you to continue. She'd been the one to ask most of the questions and bring up most of the ideas so far in this session that it must be a delight to hear you start something yourself.

"Yeah," you follow, "I think you're right."

"How so?" she wonders, leaning on the arm of her chair.

Your brow furrows as you think, letters weaving into words and those words into sentences.

"When I said that…the other day for the first time," you begin, "…it started to feel like something changed. Just because I had finally said it and heard it."

"What did it feel like?" she asks.

"I'm not sure yet," you admit, "But sort of like…I got a little taller? That's stupid, I know but I don't really know how to describe it."

"It's not stupid," Dr. Bryant assures, "You took a big step and now you feel ahead of where you were before, even if it's just a little bit. That's really good."

You feel a small smile grace your lips as you fall to the back cushion of the couch again. It's the first time you've been able to feel good about something since leaving the rehab center yesterday.

The fight with Quinn put you in a sour mood for the rest of the afternoon so you spent most of it in your room, tucked away. Of course, that didn't have its usual benefits because Brittany wasn't there with you. Yesterday was just another overwhelming day like the previous one and every day before that.

You managed to think about a lot of things, though. You concluded that visiting rehab was good because it made you see that you had every right to feel scared and unsure. Then, as the night drew closer, you started the think about Brittany and your situation with her. It seemed that the pain worsened as the sky grew dark. By the time you were ready to fall asleep, you were fighting every damn urge to pick up the phone and end the stupid break.

The weight of that memory pulls the curve of your mouth in the opposite direction.

"What's going through your mind right now?" Dr. Bryant notices.

You keep forgetting that she's really clever with that. She never misses a waver or a twitch in your expression without commenting on it. But this particular thought isn't about the rape or that struggle so you aren't quite sure if you should voice it.

"Nothing," you decide, shaking your head, "It's not really…relevant."

"Okay," she says openly, gracing her face with a half smile, "But just know that you can share anything you wish."

You offer a pressed smile, and decide to talk about something else, "I…I went to the rehab center yesterday."

"Oh, that's right," Dr. Bryant nods, "And how did that go?"

"Well, it wasn't…I didn't start anything," you recall, "I thought I'd be going in to finish the admission process but I had to do sort of…a meeting thing to see about my options."

"Of course," she acknowledges, "That's standard procedure. Have you selected a treatment plan? Will you be doing inpatient rehabilitation?"

Your throat tightens, "Well…that's the thing. We discussed the options and all that but…I don't think I'm going to start just yet."

She frowns, "And why is that?"

"I'm not ready," you confess, "If I start sessions there, I'm going to have to talk about how I got into drugs in the first place. So I have to tell them I was…raped."

"And you don't feel comfortable yet," Dr. Bryant says understandingly and you nod at her statement, "But that's fine. Rehab is something only you should decide. Unless you have been given court and/or medical orders, it is your choice."

"So, hypothetically, I could choose never to go?" you suggest.

"Absolutely," she informs, "Again that is your decision. However, should you choose not to go to rehab, you should do so with full evaluation of the consequences, good and bad."

You shake your head, voice fading, "I know I have to go, eventually."

"Okay well, let's talk about that some more then," she says, shifting in her seat, "Why did you go to the interview yesterday if you knew you weren't ready?"

You lean forward, "I didn't have a say."

"Why not?" she asks.

"Because my friends arranged it without really making sure I was okay with it, which they knew I wasn't," you recall bitterly.

"I see," she says, studying you, "And how did it make you feel when you understood that you were to attend this meeting at rehab?"

You pause, eyes widening when you realize it's more difficult to explain than to just feel it. Upset? Sure, yes. Angry? Maybe, of course. Infringed upon? To a certain extent, because it was a very personal decision that they took from you. Nothing is quite this or that and not having a solid answer makes it that much more frustrating.

If you're being honest, you're not mad about the rehab part anymore. The more you thought about it afterwards, the more you realized you couldn't participate in any of the programs that you were informed about without having worked through your struggle with the rape. That was what started the drug use. That is what you need to recover from first. What you spent all afternoon thinking about yesterday was how the problem is really to do with how Quinn, Tina and Brittany handled it.

"Angry, I think," you sigh, "And scared, but at the time I think I was just convinced that maybe they were doing what was best for me."

"Friends are there to help you see right from wrong should you need that guidance," she agrees, "But there's only so much they should do for you before it turns into a game of power and control."

"I don't think they're controlling me," you say warily, "I just think they're worried. And that's…I don't know, clouding their judgment maybe. I just want them to see that I have to work through _this _first. I can't do both right now, is that…I mean, am I wrong here?"

"Absolutely not," Dr. Bryant reassures, "You feel that there are things you have to take care of before you can make a commitment as large as rehab. I think that's wise because you'll find that rehab will be extremely difficult if you are not fully dedicated to being there."

"I'm not," you confess, "Not yet at least."

"Then you have your decision," she states simply.

"But I knew that already," you confess, "I know I don't want to be in rehab right now."

"So what is the issue?" Dr. Bryant questions.

"My friends," you stress, "They…they didn't listen to me. I have a drug problem, I know, but it's like that's all they see and they're putting that fact ahead of everything."

"Santana," Dr. Bryant says calmly, "Friends are people who support you and I'm sure yours do. But it seems to me in this occasion, that they have done the opposite and rather stripped you of your right to handle your own situation."

You blink widely, finding her words perfect, "That's…that's exactly what it is."

Dr. Bryant's eyes narrow, searching you with analytically. She rolls her pen between her fingers before tapping it a few times on her clip board.

"And how does that make you feel?" she questions.

You frown, shaking your head as realizations hit you, "Mad."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I'm just," you say confusedly, "I'm just hurt that they were so okay with sending me somewhere I really didn't want to be."

"Why?" she says with more force.

"Because it made me feel powerless," you answer with a strong voice, "They're not supposed make me feel that."

"Good, okay," she stresses, using the momentum of the conversation, "And_ why_ was making you feel powerless so _particularly _wrong of them?"

You swallow hardly, a thickness growing in your throat that makes it difficult to breathe. Your stomach and muscles clench, stiffen, blacken, and you can't help but feel like something died inside you.

"Because that's what he did," you say darkly.

Dr. Bryant breathes in deeply and leans back in her chair. She wanted you to say that. The satisfaction looms in her eyes, brightly, fiercely, but all for your own good. You needed that just as much as she did.

xxx

The drive home was nearly ten minutes and you know that because you spent it counting down the seconds. Quinn sat beside you and on the way to Dr. Bryant's office, you were glad someone was there, even if wasn't the person you really wanted. She wasn't the best company—she was hesitant and tense—but she was company nonetheless. On the way back, however, you weren't as content to have her.

The session today was interesting and _very_ enlightening. While it had its heavy moments, you came out of it feeling stronger about something than when you entered. Furthermore, it's something you need to get off your chest and it needs to be done intensely for the effect to work.

You find that Dr. Bryant works similarly to Brittany in that she can make you see what was already there but was blurred or hidden too much that you couldn't recognize it. And what that was today, wasn't so much your anger but the truth behind it.

As you walk into your apartment, you find that Tina isn't at school but sitting on the couch instead. Quinn trails behind you nervously. She noticed something off about you since you left therapy, perhaps the way it looks as though you could explode if she gets too close.

"Hey, how was today?" Tina greets when she sees both of you.

You look around and notice that this might be the best time, when they're both here, and while the emotions are fresh. You set down your keys slowly and turn back to Quinn.

"Would you call Brittany?" you request.

"What?" she says, surprised that you would say that considering what happened.

"Call Brittany and tell her to come here," you repeat, "I really need to say something to all three of you."

You waste no time explaining any more than that and retreat to your bedroom, leaving them confused and frightened.

"Santana, wait…" Quinn calls out, "What, uh…are you okay?"

"Please just…make the call," you say firmly.

Once you're in your bedroom, you let go of a deep breath. You pace around your room a few rounds, thinking about all of what you want and need to say.

Remember how you wanted to feel in control again? When you were listening to Dr. Bryant, how it made you want to be confident and secure? It's starting to show now. You can feel it in your bones, in your muscles, in your nerves. You can feel it so much it's almost as if you found a piece. As if over time, since the incident, you were shattered into pieces and those were scattered everywhere, in dark places, in forbidden places.

But as you stand in your room, reciting your speech in your head, you found a piece. It's a small piece, but you found it and all it takes is the deep breath to place it in its rightful position.

It takes half an hour before you hear the front door open. Your heart speeds, partly because it's Brittany and she just does that to you, but mostly because it means you can say what you have to say now. She must wonder what she's doing here.

You get to the door before anyone can come knocking, gripping the handle and closing your eyes calmly before pulling. When you step out, you see her and god does it make you want to run straight back to her.

It doesn't help that she looks radiant either, long blonde hair flowing past her shoulders, blue eyes sparkling even from meters away. She catches your stare and you can see her chest rise, lungs gasping for the air that you must have stolen right from her lips.

By the time you manage to break your lingering gaze, you don't know how much time you've lost. You clear your throat and walk into the living room where Tina and Quinn have already taken their seats. Brittany realizes she should probably do the same and joins the sofa beside Quinn.

You stand in front of the television, spending a moment in each of their eyes. Your fingers find their opposites and twiddle nervously, but you're still confident about what you want to say.

"Thanks," you start, looking to Brittany specifically, "For…coming."

She bows her head, "Of course."

You miss her voice so much too. So much that you wish you could reach and grab hold of it somehow, hug it towards your chest like a soft pillow. Damn it, you're gone again.

"Um…" you say, shaking you head lightly, "I need to say something that…that I probably should have said a few days ago. That is, _if _I had known this was how I felt."

They all look both scared and confused, and you can't help but stand before them like a mother scolding her children. Their faces tremble as though they're in trouble and you're about to tell them their punishment.

Tina starts slowly, "Is everything o—"

"Don't…say anything, please," you snap, a hand on your hip and another rubbing your brow.

They all take that for a lesson to not speak again unless you permit them.

"Okay, um…so I'm not going to rehab right now," you say, "I'm going to finish therapy with Dr. Bryant first because that's what I need to do in order to be ready. What _I _need to do. I've made some horrible mistakes, drugs being one of them…but all three of you made one just as bad."

Quinn and Brittany share a guilty look, nervous and uneasy in your presence.

"Quinn," you address specifically, "Yesterday, I said I didn't want to talk about it but I'm going to talk about it now. I tried to tell you that I was scared. That I was_ not_ ready and what did you do?"

She swallows hardly, her voice barely coming out, "I didn't…li—"

"I can't hear you," you scold.

Quinn sits upright and clears her throat, "I didn't…listen."

"And when Brittany went and told you that I had a relapse the other night," you continue, "You signed me up for that appointment. Why did you do that?"

She buttons her lips.

"I know the answer already, Quinn," you say, "But I want you to tell me, you owe me this."

"I thought that it was the right thing to do after hearing what she told me," she confesses, "I was wrong to think that."

You nod and then turn to Tina who almost jumps out of her own skin when she meets your eyes.

"And Tina," you start, "Did you know that I was scared?"

"Yes," she says timidly.

"Why didn't you stand by me?" you question, "Why didn't you do anything if you knew that I was scared?"

"I-I…thought it was…the right thing too," she struggles, but it's clear she has no other answer.

"And Brittany," you say slowly, turning to her.

She swallows fearfully, taking a deep breath to prepare for what mistake you're about to pin on her.

"You told Quinn about that night knowing that it was all she needed to make that call," you continue, "And then you just let it happen too. Why did you do that?"

Her lips part, quivering, "I was scared and I wanted…you to go, to get…better."

"Right," you nod, pulling back to address all three of them, "Do you realize that all of your answers are based on yourselves?"

They frown, eyes averting as if thinking about what they had said just moments before.

"All of them," you say, meeting Brittany's harshly, "And are any of you going to rehab?"

They shake their heads timidly.

"So _why,_" you stress, "…did you act on a decision as if _you _were the ones it concerned?"

Nobody says a word.

"You know until half an hour ago," you continue, feeling your voice die down to a softer tone, "I was just mad that you didn't listen to me, Quinn. I was mad that you didn't do anything, Tina. And I was mad at you Brittany because you weren't on my side. But I realized that I should be mad about something else entirely. I was scared about rehab but I was scared about something else too, do you know what?"

They remain silent and still knowing you're going to tell them.

"I was scared of how all three of you made me feel about it. Powerless," you state, stepping closer to the small table that separates you from them, "Like I _had no choice_."

Quinn looks down. Tina looks off to the side but Brittany does not move a single blink away from your eyes.

"Look at me," you say, your stare fixed on Brittany but your lips speaking to the other two.

When all pairs return, you have your cue. Your voice thickens and your eyes sting. You feel sad and hurt at the same time as confident and strong. It's a frustrating combination but one that you're just going to have to deal with. If that means speaking the harshest words with the most broken tone then so be it. You're going to make this known.

"And do you know," you start, lump rising higher and tears welling, "…do you know when the last time was…that I felt…powerless? Or the last time that I didn't have a choice to what was going to happen to me?"

Brittany's eyes begin to water and it's almost like you don't have to say anything else to her because she knows exactly what you want to say and how you feel. The other two don't shed a tear, which you never expected nor wish they would, but they do appear as though they could. Their brows curve up in the most apologetic manner but you don't care about their apologies. You just want them to know what they did because until now, they mustn't have had no clue.

"Didn't I deserve that right?" you ask, a tear slipping onto your cheek as you straighten up your posture, "Rehab is my decision. Mine. Not yours. Not anybody else's. Mine."

Brittany finally unlocks her eyes and looks down to wipe away the wetness from underneath her eyes.

"You girls are my family," you remind them, "But how _dare _you take something from me the way you did, e_specially _considering what I've been through."

Your eyes burn into theirs and force them to have a taste of what you feel. You wouldn't wish this for anybody, though. It's the worst feeling; powerless. It's not as horrible and terrifying as when a stranger does it, but something about friends being the ones to inflict that kind of emotion, that kind of helplessness in you, is disturbingly cruel.

And now you're finished. The anger has already dissolved because there's no point in fighting them. You just wanted them to know. And now they'll never forget.

You turn around and retreat back to your room, thinking it's about time to let loose in private. When you're inside you close the door gently because you don't want them to think you're storming away. You barely make it to the bed before you bend over and stop holding on so hard, breaths bursting from your lips.

You shut your eyes, feeling the tension poison your chest, swelling your lungs with venom. You've never said so much, with so much force and passion, before. Probably ever. It took more out of you than you had to give.

"Fuck," you breathe out, counting numbers off to slow the rapid reactions inside you.

Your eyes peek at the drawer in your desk knowing that a month ago you could have opened it and escaped somewhere. Now you can't but it's not just because you don't have them. You don't want the drugs either.

Right now, it isn't about too much negativity. You think it's actually about too much of you doing the right thing for yourself, too much of you standing up and taking responsibility like you have never been able to do since the rape. This is a good kind of panic, a kind that meets you like a stranger but wraps around you like an old friend.

You shake your hands out, wiggling them in the air and tilting your head back. You take the deep breaths you need and keep counting those digits in your head. You almost calm your mind and body back to stability when there are three knocks on the door and everything shoots back up into the sky.

It doesn't surprise you to see Brittany on the other side, hands stuck in her pack pockets and hair tucked behind her ears. She doesn't say anything yet, she merely stands. Her lids are rimmed with a pink glow from the tears she shed.

Your eyes find hers easily because you swear that's what they're meant to do; find her and her alone. Her breaths are uneven, chest rising and falling with peculiar intervals. You sigh and step aside with the door, granting her a pathway into your room. She embarks on it immediately.

You slowly walk it shut again and hear the click, turning around to lean against the wood. You watch as she turns too, facing you and running a hand through her hair.

"I'm sorry," she starts, "I didn't think enough about how you were feeling and that was wrong of me. I'm sorry, Santana. I never wanted you to feel like that."

"I know," you say quietly.

She drops her eyes to the floor. You assume she has said what she wanted yet she doesn't leave. Of course, you don't really want her to go but the 'break up' is still in play so you didn't really expect her to stay long.

"What do you want, Britt?" you ask softly, wondering what else she came in here to do.

She kicks the carpet aimlessly, eyes glued to it. You watch her as she stands nervously, hands still dug into her jeans.

"You," she finally answers, shrugging as she lifts her head up to look at you.

Your stomach knots. Your heart swells but your chest doesn't expand to give it room so it feels intense, pressurized and compressed.

"All of you," she finishes.

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. She's killing you. A few days ago she was hurting and scared and now she looks like she'll never leave this room.

"I don't get to walk away in this," Brittany continues, stepping towards you, "I feel horrible about what happened. I don't want this, Santana. I went up the other day to talk to you, to tell you how I felt, but it went all wrong. I got…overwhelmed and scared."

Her gaze burns through yours enough that you have to look away. You blink quickly and clear your throat, shifting your weight from one to the other.

"You still meant it," you finally speak, "And it's true. It won't be easy for you."

"It's not about me," she stresses, "I didn't really understand that before. I didn't know how to handle it but now I do. Santana, none of this is about me. You have something you need to get through and I need to be there for you. This is when I have to put my feelings aside, I know that now."

The tension in the room seeps through your skin, thickening the blood running through your veins. Your whole body begins to feel heavier, like when you wade through rough waters on an ocean shore.

"Look, you have every right to be mad at me—"

"That's not…" you interrupt, sighing deeply, "I'm not mad at you, Brittany."

She swallows nervously, but straightens her posture moments later. Brittany takes in a deep breath, standing tall.

"Okay. Still, I didn't come here expecting you'd take me back," she begins, "I know it'll take more than this but I just…I need you to know that I'm done with the time that I needed. I took it and I'm done with it and now I'm ready to be here for you."

You glance up at her, your brow curving in a strangely complex manner as if it was nice to hear her say that but at the same time depressing.

"So when you need me, when you want me, if ever," Brittany follows, "I'll be here. I'll be whatever you want me to be. If that means waiting too, I'll wait."

You would expect to lunge yourself at her now, fall into her arms, take her up on that offer, but you don't. As a matter of fact, you scarcely budge when she brushes past you to leave the room. You feel her linger a few seconds at the open door, perhaps hoping you'll turn around or say something to her, but it completely misses your conscious to respond.

When you hear the door shut, you know she's gone but instead of feeling the way you did days ago on the roof when you parted ways, unraveled and heartbroken, you're kept together this time.

A breath of relief slides past your lips once you realize you're alone again, turning to look over your shoulder at the door. You begin to walk backwards subconsciously until your legs hit the bed and you sit down on the mattress.

Brittany didn't say anything bad. If anything, she gave you something good, something positive for you to hold on to. What troubles you now is why you didn't stop her. You've spent the last two days missing her yet you couldn't cough out a word when she revealed she was ready to end the whole conflict. For what it's worth, you now have something to spend the rest of the day thinking about.

* * *

**#3: "He was…just a guy."**

"Uh, I don't think this is working," you say doubtfully, opening one eye to peek at Dr. Bryant.

"Well of course it's not going to work if you keep thinking about how it's not working," she scolds, but her face is too kind to seem frustrated.

You sigh and close both your eyes again, fidgeting uncomfortably as you lie down on the couch.

"Remember, focus on your breathing," she instructs, "Try _not _to think about anything just yet."

You take a deep breath and try to listen to her voice. It's a lot harder to wipe your mind clean after someone tells you to do it. You've been given instructions not to and therefore you have to make sure you don't, thus, thinking about how you should not think about anything.

"Relax your muscles," she continues, "Nobody is going to walk in the room. Nobody is going to touch you."

You allow your body to sink further into the cushion, almost as if becoming part of the material itself. The room is dead quiet when she isn't speaking, which helps with the relaxing part but frightens you because any small noise, like that damn clock, is amplified.

"This is something called Stress Inoculation Training," Dr. Bryant explains, her voice smooth and soft, "We're going to go a bit deeper today, confront some of the memories and emotions you haven't spent much time thinking or dealing with."

The idea of it makes you nervous because the entire rape is something you haven't spent much time thinking or dealing with. It's not like you haven't thought about it, because something like that is impossible to forget, but you haven't pulled it apart, you haven't looked at it carefully. All the rape has been to you is a nightmare, one you can't cut out, one you can't beat.

"Okay," she says, pausing carefully, "I want you to picture a room. Any room in the world."

You shut your eyes tighter, immediately uncomfortable because the only image you create is the room you were actually in that night, the same one in your dreams. The scary thing is that you know exactly where every piece of furniture goes. The chair, the lamp, the window. The bed.

"Can you describe your room?" she asks.

At that, you blow out a much needed breath to steady the thoughts, the panic.

"Dark," you start slowly, basic, "There's…there's a chair and…a window…and a lamp. And…a bed."

"Good, okay," she says, "And what significant does this room hold to you?"

"It's…_the _room," you say vaguely but trust she'll fit the pieces together.

"And how does it make you feel, this room?" she wonders.

You inhale deeply, "Uncomfortable."

"Okay," Dr. Bryant says, leaving you to linger briefly in silence.

You hate this room. You hate the way it looks. You hate the way it's organized. You hate the way it feels like it's swallowing you in one giant gulp.

"Now I want you to enter this room," she continues, "You're in there now."

The worst part of that is that it was easy. Sometimes it feels like you're still there, like you never left, like you will never leave it. You realize after a while that you've been scrunching your face, only now making yourself relax those muscles.

"Tell me what you're doing," she instructs.

Again, another deep breath.

"Trying to get out," you answer.

"Why?" she asks.

"I don't want to be there," you confess.

"Can you leave?" she wonders.

You know the answer but you pause. If you could leave, you wouldn't have those nightmares. You wouldn't open the door and walk straight back into the same room you thought you left.

"No."

"Why not?"

Your eyes clench harder, "There is no…way out. The door doesn't work."

You're tugging on that handle, so hard you think you might rip it off but of course, that won't happen. The door will just stay shut and you'll just keep pulling. You know how this ends.

"Okay," Dr. Bryant says calmly, "You can open your eyes now."

You wait a while after she says that before you peel them open. The brightness is blinding but comforting since darkness was the only company you had.

"Can I sit up?" you ask.

When she nods, you slowly lift from the couch and return to an upright position. The images are still there, somewhere in your head, but the world that you can now see starts to fill up the space so your 'room' gets lost in the crowd.

"Why did you think about that room?" she questions.

You shrug heavily, "It's the first…thing I thought of."

"And you remember it well?"

You nod, breathing nervously, "Everything."

"How did that exercise feel?" Dr. Bryant asks.

"Um…" you quiver, "Like the…nightmares I get sometimes."

"You have nightmares about this room?"

"Yeah…different variations," you explain, "But I'm…always in there too and…"

Your voice gets caught in your throat as if something from deeper inside you reached up and grabbed hold of it, tugging it back down.

"And?" she says, leaning forward.

"And there's always…a voice first," you recall, "His voice."

"The man who raped you," she assumes, filling in the blanks out loud.

You nod, stomach tightening but not too badly.

"May I ask, Santana," Dr. Bryant begins, "Who was this man?"

The words taste so bitter, "I didn't know him. I was…on Spring Break with a couple of my friends. We were in Miami. He was…just a guy."

"I see," she nods, noting down what she needs, "So you didn't know his name, where he was from?"

"Nothing," you confirm.

"And you have had no contact with him since?" she wonders.

God, you never really thought about the possibility. It makes your skin itch like it's inside out and rotting.

"No," you answer.

"And do you remember much about him?" she asks.

"Yes," you say, then think harder, "No. Sometimes I don't even…know his face."

You remember the faceless man from your dreams. The truth is that you didn't spent much time looking at his face. Not that you could. He made it particularly difficult.

"What do you mean?" she wonders.

You sigh, shaking your head, "He was…the way it happened, I couldn't really…I couldn't."

Your chest begins to compress around your heart and lungs now.

"Would you be okay with telling me how it happened?" she asks carefully.

Any other day before this and you might have said no. But this is today and you woke up this morning feeling like you wanted to take another step. The first step, saying what happened, was good and you gave it a few days to let that settle but now you have a taste of what it feels like to move forward. You want this. You want to keep walking.

You nod and take the deep breaths you need, even though you feel like the panic could jump in any second now. You're aware that this could lead you to have some kind of attack, mentally and emotionally, but you take the risk anyway. You've spent months afraid of these risks. You're tired of being afraid.

"I had…a few drinks that night," you begin slowly, "There was a party. Um…and…at one point the music was too loud so I wanted to take a break. I was tired from dancing too. It was the last…night of the trip."

You see that she hasn't written any of that down and you wonder why.

"Aren't you…going to write that?" you question.

"I'm listening to you," she says softly, "That's all I need to be doing right now."

You look at her with surprise, finding that, among many other things, you have quite the admiration for Dr. Bryant.

"Okay," you say, picking up where you left off, "I left the party, which was on the beach, I left it and I started…walking. The beach had those…those cabana things just meters away from the shore. There were a lot of them. I know because I counted them as I passed by."

It starts to get harder now, throat swelling and voice growing quieter.

"I think it was…the eighth one," you remember, "I reached it and I turned around and realized I was really far from the party, from everyone but I remember liking it. It was quiet and I sat there for a while on the sand until…I heard his voice. I didn't even…know if he had followed me or if he came from somewhere else but he…asked me if I was lost."

xxx

"Lost?" he asked, approaching you slowly.

He had an eerie grin on his face, like he knew exactly how the next ten minutes were going to pan out. You noticed it immediately, danger written all over him, and stood up from the sand. You brushed off your shorts and tried to act nonchalant. You didn't want to piss him off. He seemed like the kind of guy who didn't let people piss him off.

"Nope," you said casually, though the fear was burning deep holes into your stomach, "Just heading back."

You thought you were safe when you walked past him. You remember wishing so badly you had some form of superpower; speed, strength, flight, invisibility. Anything that would have kept him away but that's when you realized something awful. A superpower was the only way you could have escaped.

On the fifth step you took after leaving him behind, you knew what was going to happen and the horrible part was that the scream was already in your throat, about to break from your lips when his hand shoved it back in. You reached up and tried to pull it away from your mouth but he grabbed your head and brought your body crashing back against his front.

"Come on now," he said, grappling you as tried to fight him off, "I didn't mean to scare ya."

You weren't in the position to wrestle yourself free. One of his hands was at your mouth while the other wrapped around your chest, strapping your hands down. He had you in a tight lock.

Tears filled your eyes and they wasted no time before they burned down your cheek. He dragged you for a short distance while you tried to wiggle free and kick him where he'd be forced to let you go but he was strong. You remember thinking how it didn't feel like the normal kind of strength a person could have, like he was something different.

It was a matter of seconds before he led you into one of the cabanas. It must have been his or maybe he broke in somehow. That part you weren't sure about. It happened quicker than you could wrap your head around but soon you were in the room and none of that mattered.

He finally turned you around and pinned you against a wall but moved his face out of the way, his cheek pressing up against yours as his body shoved against you. He breathed heavily into your ear, his voice haunting you so much you were crying from the fear of it alone rather than the thought of what he was about to do to you.

"This doesn't have to get messy," he whispered.

You kept fighting despite that. If there was any chance you could squeeze a punch or a kick and temporarily knock him down, you could make a run for it.

But he was strong. That's one of the things you remember the most. He was so strong and you weren't nearly as big or as built as he was. His muscles bruised your skin, just the muscles themselves, pressed against you, without him doing anything with them.

His hand was still over your mouth, the other one holding both your wrists in his strong grip. He pushed your own hands against your chest.

"You were so fucking hot out there," he said, chuckling deeply.

His voice was low and caressing your ear. You could smell the alcohol, he reeked of it. You shook your head but he knocked it back against the wall and that made you stop, knowing he'd do it harder if you tried again.

"You _and_ your little girlfriends," he continued and the way he said it was clear that he was grinning deviously, "Gotta love Spring Break, right? All the girls just asking for it in your thongs and short shorts."

Your face was wet, tears and sweat clashing and mixing together. Your throat was swelling with the screams that couldn't find their way out.

"All you want is good fuck," he said, "Don't deny it."

With a burst of energy and strength, you lunged forward and pushed him off you. He stumbled back and you ran towards the door. You ran past him, so fast you thought you did have a superpower but he was fast too. Maybe he had the superpower here. He would have been the perfect villain.

You reached for the door but he slammed you against it, head knocked against the wood so hard you lost conscious for a few seconds. Your head spun and sobs were breaking from your lips. You think you were trying to say something, to beg him to let you go but the words didn't come out coherently. They were like slurs of panic and fear and terror mumbling together, creating sounds, desperate sounds.

When he turned you back to face him, you got a good look. He looked familiar in a strange way but you weren't thinking about whether or not you knew him. All you saw was the deep red in his eyes and the wicked grin on his face.

"You're a tough one," he commented and suddenly it sounded as if he did this all the time.

His hand gripped your neck but not in the way that strangled you. His just used that part to hold you against the wall. His fingers did dig into your skin, making it difficult to breathe but he wasn't suffocating you too much. That must have been his form of kindness.

"I like your face," he said, "I'd hate to see it get ruined."

Your eyes widened with terror and more tears spilled out. You realized right then and there that he could kill you if he wanted to. He could kill you. You imagine how he had that power in his hands and you had none of it. Powerless.

It was that realization and the taste of blood at the corner of your mouth that made you stop struggling. When you realized he could have a knife somewhere or another weapon. Or that he could probably just use his hands. He was strong enough.

A minute later your shirt was ripped off and the bikini under it torn from you too. There were a few times when your hands were free because he had to remove your shorts but he was still pressed against you and you knew that another attempt to run could be all he needs to start hitting.

You wish you went numb but he kept you conscious and well enough to stop you from getting that luxury. You felt everything from the moment he stuck himself inside you to the way he pulled out with a grunt, held your face with a painful grip and winked before letting you fall to the ground.

xxx

"Here," Dr. Bryant says, handing you a box of tissues.

You reach for them and grab a handful, bending over as you cry hardly. The sobs fill the room and no one stops you, no one keeps them hushed. Your eyes sting and your heart beats with overwhelming emotion.

Your duck your head into the dark cave between your thighs and your chest. Your hands slip into your hair and grab fistfuls, tears wetting the skin on your legs instantly. You've never told anyone that story, not even yourself.

You're surprised you remembered it. No, that's not true. You knew you'd remember it. You're surprised that you were able to find the right words and the courage. There were moments where you paused for a minute but you kept going after that. You always kept going until it ended.

Dr. Bryant stays quiet while the worst of your tears rush out. You don't care for the time but you assume you spent nearly ten minutes crying and then stopping and then crying some more until now you're finally sitting here, head still buried, but sobs slowing down. Little gasps come and go, shaking and awakening your system, as it gradually settles.

"I understand that was an incredibly big deal for you to tell me that, Santana," she finally comments, "Thank you for doing the best that you could, I can't say I know how hard that must have been."

She doesn't. No one knows how hard it is unless they've been through it. Unless they're like you, a victim.

You finally emerge, face swollen and eyes bursting with the color red. You look up at the ceiling and take deep breaths, closing your eyes smoothly. After a while, you slowly fall back to the couch and rest against it, fiddling with the tissues in your hand.

You don't need a mirror to know the extent of how swollen your face is. You can feel it tight and puffy, the area around your eyes especially thick and burned.

"I've…nev…never…to..tol..d," you try to say but find that your voice keeps getting swallowed by those gasps.

"It's okay to not talk," she reassures you, "We don't have to do any more today. You've already done so much."

The images, the memory, it's still in your mind and it will be for a while now that you've made it entirely known again. The strange thing about it is that it feels just as distant as it does fresh. As if happened so recently, days ago, but because you can't feel the same things you felt in that moment with him, it can't be too close. There's something between you and it, a protection barrier, stopping it from grabbing a hold of you again.

The protection is progress. Your progress. The more steps you take in this recovery, the larger this barrier gets and you just took one more step. Progress is what keeps it from sucking you back. You're building your armor.

The hardest part about right now is that you still have the chance to let it beat you. The hardest part about right now is that you could leave this room and run straight back out of fear, do everything you were doing before, all that pushing and avoiding. The hardest part is choosing whether or not to move forward.

"Unless," she says after some time, "Unless you would like to keep going."

You glance up at her. Your breaths are still uneven but they're calmer. Your heartbeat is still erratic but under control. Your mind is still weak but regaining the strength. And suddenly, the hardest part about this becomes the easiest part.

"Yes," you answer firmly, "I would."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for readinggg. It was a particularly heavy chapter for me to write and I'm sure for many of you to read. I've made some decisions about the story since the last update. I won't be featuring rehab, but Santana will go and that's all I'm going to say for now. Also, Brittana is always on guys. You know that. Take caree and until next time :)**


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